vitaii;:. 
 
 
 JOHN BUCHAN 
 
CORNELL 
 
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 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN U S A. 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PR6003.U17P31921 
 
 The path of the king 
 
 /-> Ae\r\A nno CQO i TQ 
 
Cornell University 
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THE PATH OF 
 THE KING 
 
 By JOHN BUCHAN 
 
 We wonder that so great a man as 
 Abraham Lincohi should spring from 
 humble people — but who knows 
 what hJs more distant ancestry 
 might have been? 
 
 In a series of dramatic chapters, 
 Mr. Buchan tells what he imagines to 
 have been the ancestry of Lincoln. 
 The worthy son of a northern chief- 
 tain who had come down with his 
 Eeople into Normandy; a Norman 
 night who fought under Duke Wil- 
 liam and settled in England; a French 
 knight, emissary of Saint Louis to 
 Kubla Khan; a proud demoiselle, 
 friend to Jeanne d'Arc; a French 
 gentleman who went with Columbus 
 on his second voyage; an avenger of 
 Saint Bartholomew's Day; a friend 
 io Sir Walter Raleigh; a supporter of 
 Cromwell; a soldier of fortune under 
 Marlborough; a mighty hunter in 
 Virginia — all these, says Mr. Buchan, 
 were Lincoln's forebears. Their blood 
 ran in his veins and made him, in 
 James Russell Lowell's phrase, "the 
 last of the kings." 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF: 
 
 THE DANCiING IXOOB 
 
 SALUTE TO ADVENTCBEBS, Etc. 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 
 
BY JOHN BUCHAN 
 
 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 MR. STANDFAST 
 
 GREENMANTLE 
 
 THE WATCHER' BY THE THRESHOLD 
 
 SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS 
 
 PRESTER JOHN 
 
 THE POWER HOUSE 
 
 THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
The Path 
 the Kin: 
 
 By JOHN BUCHAN 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 'PUBLISHERS 
 
 New York Chicago 
 
 Published by arrangement with Houghton, MitElln Co. 
 Printed in U. S. A. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 192 1, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPAMT 
 
 ALh RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCB 
 THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM 
 
 
 y 
 
 
 I, . jv J'fintsd aid Bound in the U. S. A. by the Grady Bookbinding Co., NYC 
 
 ■s(V/ \v^>" 
 
MY WIFE 
 
 1 DEDICATE THESE CHAPTERS 
 FIRST READ BY A COTSWOLD FIRE 
 
Linum fumigans non exstinguet; in veritate educet judicium. 
 
 IsA. XLII. 3. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prologue ie 
 
 I. HiGHTOWN Under Sunfell 14, 
 
 II. The Englishman 36 
 
 III. The Wife of Flanders 55 
 
 IV. Eyes of Youth 73 
 
 V. The Maid , . 95 
 
 VI. The Wood of Life m 
 
 VII. Eaucourt by the Waters 130 
 
 VIII. The Hidden City 155 
 
 IX. The Regicide 173 
 
 X. The Marplot 190 
 
 XI. The Lit Chamber 209 
 
 XII. In the Dark Land 227 
 
 XIII. The Last Stage 243 
 
 XIV. The End of the Road 256 
 
 Epilogue >..... 288 
 
THE PATH 
 OF THE KING 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 npHE three of us in that winter camp in the Selkirks 
 -*- were talking the slow aimless talk of wearied men. 
 
 The Soldier, who had seen many campaigns, was 
 riding his hobby of the Civil War and descanting on 
 Lee's tactics in the last Wilderness struggle. I said 
 something about the stark romance of it — of Jeb 
 Stuart flitting like a wraith through the forests; of 
 Sheridan's attack at Chattanooga, when the charging 
 troops on the ridge were silhouetted against a harvest 
 moon; of Leonidas Polk, last of the warrior Bishops, 
 baptizing his fellow generals by the light of a mess 
 candle. "Romance," I said, "attended the sombre 
 grey and blue levies as faithfully as she ever rode with 
 knight-errant or crusader." 
 
 The Scholar, who was cutting a raw-hide thong, 
 raised his wise eyes. 
 
 "Does it never occur to you fellows that we are all 
 pretty mixed in our notions? We look for romance in 
 the well-cultivated garden-plots, and when it springs 
 out of virgin soil we are surprised, though any fool 
 might know it was the natural place for it." 
 
 He picked up a burning stick to relight his pipe. 
 
 "The things we call aristocracies and reigning 
 houses are the last places to look for masterful men. 
 They began strongly, but they have been too long in 
 
 II 
 
12 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 possession. They have been cosseted and comforted 
 and the devil has gone out of their blood. Don't 
 imagine that I undervalue descent. It is not for noth- 
 ing that a great man leaves posterity. But who is 
 more likely to inherit the fire — the elder son with his 
 flesh-pots or the younger son with his fortune to find? 
 Just think of it! All the younger sons of younger 
 sons back through the generations! We none of us 
 know our ancestors beyond a little way. We all of 
 us may have kings' blood in our veins. The dago who 
 blacked my boots at Vancouver may be descended by 
 curious byways from Julius Caesar. 
 
 "Think of it!" he cried. "The spark once trans- 
 mitted may smoulder for generations under ashes, but 
 the appointed time will come, and it will flare up to 
 warm the world. God never allows waste. And we 
 fools rub our eyes and wonder, when we see genius 
 come out of the gutter. It didn't begin there. We 
 tell ourselves that Shakespeare was the son of a wool- 
 pedlar, and Napoleon of a farmer, and Luther of a 
 peasant, and we hold up our hands at the marvel. But 
 who knows what kings and prophets they had in their 
 ancestry!" 
 
 After that we turned in, and as I lay looking at the 
 frosty stars a fancy wove itself in my brain. I saw 
 the younger sons carry the royal blood far down 
 among the people, down even into the kennels of the 
 outcast. Generations follow, oblivious of the high be- 
 ginnings, but there is that in the stock which is fated 
 to endure. The sons and daughters blunder and sin 
 and perish, but the race goes on, for there is a fierce 
 stuff of life in it. It sinks and rises again and blossoms 
 at haphazard into virtue or vice, since the ordinary 
 moral laws do not concern its mission. Some rags of 
 greatness always cling to it, the dumb faith that some- 
 
PROLOGUE 13 
 
 time and somehow that blood drawn from kings it 
 never knew will be royal again. Though nature is 
 wasteful of material things, there is no waste of spirit. 
 And then after long years there comes, unheralded and 
 unlooked-for, the day of the Appointed Time. . . . 
 
 This is the story which grew out of that talk by the 
 winter fire. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 
 
 '1X7HEN Biorn was a very little boy in his father's 
 ' ' stead at Hightown he had a play of his own 
 making for the long winter nights. At the back end 
 of the hall, where the men sat at ale, was a chamber 
 which the thralls used of a morning — a place which 
 smelt of hams and meal and good provender.. There 
 a bed had been made for him when he forsook his cot 
 in the women's quarters. When the door was shut it 
 was black dark, save for a thin crack of light from the 
 wood fire and torches of the hall. The crack made 
 on the earthen floor a line like a golden river. Biorn, 
 cuddled up on a bench in his little bear-skin, was drawn 
 like a moth to that stream of light. With his heart 
 beating fast he would creep to it and stand for a mo- 
 ment with his small body bathed in the radiance. The 
 game was not to come back at once, but to foray into 
 the farther darkness before returning to the sanctuary 
 of bed. That took all the fortitude in Biorn's heart, 
 and not till the thing was dared and done could he go 
 happily to sleep. 
 
 One night Leif the Outbom watched him at his 
 game. Sometimes the man was permitted to sleep 
 there when he had been making sport for the house- 
 carles, 
 
 "Behold an image of life I" he had said in his queer 
 outland speech. "We pass from darkness to darkness 
 with but an instant of light between. You are born 
 for high deeds, princeling. Many would venture from 
 
 14 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 15 
 
 the dark to the light, but it takes a stout breast to 
 voyage into the farther dark." 
 
 And Biorn's small heart swelled, for he detected 
 praise, though he did not know what Leif meant. 
 
 In the long winter the sun never topped Sunfell, 
 and when the gales blew and the snow drifted there 
 were lights in the hall the day long. In Biorn's first 
 recollection the winters were spent by his mother's 
 side, while she and her maids spun the wool of the 
 last clipping. She was a fair woman out of the West- 
 ern Isles, all brown and golden as it seemed to him, 
 and her voice was softer than the hard ringing speech 
 of the Wick folk. She told him island stories about 
 gentle fairies and good-humoured elves who lived in 
 a green windy country by summer seas, and her air 
 would be wistful as if she thought of her lost home. 
 And she sang him to sleep with crooning songs which 
 had the sweetness of the west wind in them. But her 
 maids were a rougher stock, and they stuck to the 
 Wicking lullaby which ran something like this: 
 
 Hush thee, my bold one, a boat itiill I buy thee, 
 A boat and stout oars and a bright sword beside, 
 
 A helm of red gold and a thrall to be nigh thee. 
 When fair blotus the wind at the next <wicking-tide. 
 
 There was a second verse, but it was rude stuff, and 
 the Queen had forbidden the maids to sing it. 
 
 As he grew older he was allowed to sit with the 
 men In the hall, when bows were being stretched and 
 bowstrings knotted and spear-hafts fitted. He would 
 sit mum in a corner, listening with both ears to the 
 talk of the old franklins, with their endless grumbles 
 about lost cattle and ill neighbours. Better he liked 
 the bragging of the young warriors, the Bearsarks, 
 who were the spear-head In all the forays. At the 
 great feasts of Yule-tide he was soon sent packing, for 
 
i6 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 there were wild scenes when the ale flowed freely, 
 though his father, King Ironbeard, ruled his hall with 
 a strong hand. From the speech of his elders Biorn 
 made his picture of the world beyond the firths. It 
 was a world of gloom and terror, yet shot with a 
 strange brightness. The High Gods might be met 
 with in beggar's guise at any ferry, jovial fellows and 
 good friends to brave men, for they themselves had to 
 fight for their lives, and the End of All Things hung 
 over them like a cloud. Yet till the day of Ragnarok 
 there would be feasting- and fine fighting and goodly 
 fellowship, and a stout heart must live for the hour, 
 
 Leif the Outbom was his chief friend. The man 
 was no warrior, being lame of a leg and lean and sharp 
 as a heron. No one knew his begetting, for he had 
 been fodnd as a child on the high fells. Some said' he 
 was come of the Finns, and his ill-wishers would have 
 it that his birthplace had been behind a foss, and 
 that he had the blood of dwarves in him. Yet though 
 he made sport for the company, he had respect from 
 them, for he was wise in many things, a skilled leech, 
 a maker of runes, and a crafty builder of ships. He 
 was a master hand at riddles, and for hours the house- 
 carles would puzzle their wits over his efforts. This 
 was the manner of them. "Who," Leif would ask, 
 "are the merry maids that glide above the land to 
 the joy of their father; in winter they bear a white 
 shield, but black in summer?" The answer was 
 "Snowflakes and rain." Or "I saw a corpse sitting 
 on a corpse, a blind one riding on a lifeless steed?" 
 to which the reply was "A dead horse on an ice-floe." 
 Biorn never guessed any of the riddles, but the clever- 
 ness of them he thought miraculous, and the others 
 roared with glee at their own obtuseness. 
 
 But Leif had different moods, for sometimes he 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 17 
 
 would tell tales, and all were hushed in a pleasant awe. 
 The fire on the hearth was suffered to die down, and 
 men drew closer to each other, as Leif told of the 
 tragic love of Helgi and Sigrun, or how Weyland out- 
 witted King Nidad, or how Thor went as bride to 
 Thrym in Giantland, and the old sad tale of how 
 Sigurd Fafnirsbane, noblest of men, went down to 
 death for the love of a queen not less noble. Leif 
 told them well, so that his hearers were held fast with 
 the spell of wonder and then spurred to memories of 
 their own. Tongues would be loosened, and there 
 would be wild recollections of battles among the 
 skerries of the west, of huntings in the hills where 
 strange sights greeted the benighted huntsman, and of 
 voyaging far south into the lands of the sun where the 
 poorest thrall wore linen and the cities were all gold 
 and jewels. Biorn's head would be in such a whirl 
 after a night of story-telling that he could get no sleep 
 for picturing his own deeds when he was man enough 
 to bear a sword and launch his ship. And sometimes 
 in his excitement he would slip outside into the dark- 
 ness, and hear far up in the frosty sky the whistle of 
 the swans as they flew southward, and fancy them the 
 shield-maids of Odin on their way to some lost battle. 
 His father, Thorwald Thorwaldson, was king over 
 all the firths and wicks between Coldness in the south 
 and Flatness and the mountain Rauma in the north, 
 and inland over the Uplanders as far as the highest 
 springs of the rivers. He was king by more than 
 blood, for he was the tallest and strongest man in all 
 the land, and the cunningest in battle. He was for 
 ordinary somewhat grave and silent, a dark man with 
 hair and beard the colour of molten iron, whence came 
 his by-name. Yet in a fight no Bearsark could vie 
 mth him for fury, and his sword Tyrfing was famed 
 
i8 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 in a thousand songs. On high days the tale of his 
 descent would be sung in the hall — ^not by Leif, who 
 was low-born and of no account, but by one or other 
 of the chiefs of the Shield-ring. Biom was happy on 
 such occasions, for he himself came into the songs, 
 since It was right to honour the gentle lady, the Queen. 
 He heard how on the distaff side he was sprung from 
 proud western earls, Thorwolf the Black, and Halfdan 
 and Hallward SkuUsplitter. But on the spear side, he 
 was of still loftier kin, for Odin was first in his pedi- 
 gree, and after him the Volsung chiefs, and Gothfred 
 the Proud, and — that no magnificence might be want- 
 ing — one Karlamagnus, whom Biorn had never heard 
 of before, but who seemed from his doings to have 
 been a puissant king. 
 
 On such occasions there would follow a brag^ng- 
 matoh among the warriors, for a recital of the past 
 was meant as an augury for the future. The time was 
 towards the close of the Wicking-tide, and the world 
 was becoming hard for simple folk. There were 
 endless bickerings with the Tronds in the north and 
 the men of More in the south, and a certain Shockhead, 
 an upsetting king in Norland, was making trouble with 
 his neighbours. Likewise there was one Kristnl, a 
 king of the Romans, who sought to dispute with Odin 
 himself. This Kristni was a magic-worker, who clad 
 his followers in white linen instead of byrnies, and 
 gave them runes in place of swords, and sprinkled 
 them with witch water. Biom did not like what he 
 heard of the warlock, and longed for the day when 
 his father Ironbeard would make an end of him. 
 
 Each year before the coming of spring there was 
 a lean season in Hightown. Fish were scarce in the 
 ice-holes, the stock of meal in the meal-ark grew low, 
 and the deep snow made poor hunting in wood or on 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL \g 
 
 fell-side. Belts were tightened, and there were hollow 
 cheeks among the thralls. And then one morning the 
 wind would blow from the south, and a strange smell 
 come into the air. The dogs left their lair by the fire 
 and, led by the Garm the old blind patriarch, made a 
 tour of inspection among the outhouses to the edge of 
 the birch woods. Presently would come a rending of 
 the ice on the firth, and patches of inky water would 
 show between the floes. The snow would slip from 
 the fell-side, and leave dripping rock and clammy bent, 
 and the river would break its frosty silence and pour 
 a mighty grey-green flood to the sea. The swans and 
 geese began to fly northward, and the pipits woke 
 among the birches. And at last one day the world put 
 on a new dress, all steel-blue and misty green, and a 
 thousand voices woke of flashing streams and nesting 
 birds and tossing pines, and the dwellers in Hightown 
 knew that spring had fairly come. 
 
 Then was Biorn the happy child. All through the 
 long day, and through much of that twilight which is 
 the darkness of a Norland summer, he was abroad on 
 his own errands. With Grim the Hunter he adven- 
 tured far up on the fells and ate cheese and bannocks 
 in the tents of the wandering Skridfinns, or stalked the 
 cailzie-cock with his arrows in the great pine forest, 
 which in his own mind he called Mirkwood and feared 
 exceedingly. Or he would go fishing with Egll the 
 Fisherman, spearing salmon in the tails of the river 
 pools. But best he loved to go up the firth in the boat 
 which Leif had made him — a finished, clinker-built 
 little model of a war galley, christened the Joy-maker 
 — and catch the big sea fish. Monsters he caught 
 sometimes in the deep water under the cliffs, till he 
 thought he was destined to repeat the exploit of Thor 
 when he went fishing with the giant Hymi, and hooked 
 
20 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the Midgard Serpent, the brother of Fenris-wolf, 
 whose coils encircle the earth. 
 
 Nor was his education neglected. Arnwulf the 
 Bearsark taught him axe-play and sword-play, and he 
 had a small buckler of his own, not of linden-wood like 
 those of the Wick folk, but of wickerwork after the 
 fashion of his mother's people. He learned to wrestle 
 toughly with the lads of his own age, and to throw a 
 light spear truly at a mark. He was fleet of foot and 
 scoured the fells like a goat, and he could breast the 
 tide in the pool of the great foss up to the very edge 
 of the white water where the trolls lived. 
 
 There was a wise woman dwelt on the bay of Sigg. 
 Katla was her name, a woman still black-browed 
 though she was very old, and clever at mending 
 hunters' scars. To her house Biom went with Leif ; 
 and when they had made a meal of her barley-cakes 
 and sour milk, and passed the news of the coast, Leif 
 would fall to probing her craft and get but surly 
 answers. To the boy's question she was kinder. "Let 
 the dead things be, prince," she said. "There's small 
 profit from foreknowledge. Better to take fates as 
 they come sudden round a turn of the road than be 
 watching them with an anxious heart all the way down 
 the hill. The time will come soon enough when you 
 must stand by the Howe of the Dead and call on the 
 ghost-folk." 
 
 But Leif coaxed and Biorn harped on the thing, as 
 boys do, and one night about the midsummer time her 
 hour came upon Katla and she spoke without their 
 seeking. There in the dim hut with the apple-green 
 twilight dimming the fells Biorn stood trembling on the 
 brink of the half-world, the woman huddled on the 
 floor, her hand shading her eyes as if she were looking 
 to a far horizon. Her body shook with gusts of pas- 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 21 
 
 sion, and the voice that came from her was not her own. 
 Never so long as he lived did Biorn forget the terrible 
 hour when that voice from beyond the world spoke 
 things he could not understand. "I have been snowed 
 on with snow," it said, "I have been beaten with the 
 rain, I have been drenched with the dew, long have 
 I been dead." It spoke of kings whose names he had 
 never heard, and of the darkness gathering about the 
 Norland, and famine and awe stalking upon the earth. 
 
 Then came a whisper from Leif asking the fortune 
 of the young prince of Hightown. 
 
 "Death," said the weird-wife, "death — ^but not yet. 
 The shears of the Norns are still blunt for him, and 
 Skuld has him in keeping." 
 
 There was silence for a space, for the fit was passing 
 from Katla. But the voice came again in broken 
 syllables. "His thread runs westward — ^beyond the 
 Far Isles . . . not he but the seed of his loins shall 
 win great kingdoms . . . beyond the sea-walls. . . . 
 The All-Father dreams. . . . Nay, he wakes ... he 
 wakes . . ." 
 
 There was a horrible choking sound, and the next 
 Biorn knew was that Leif had fetched water and was 
 dashing it on Katla's face. 
 
 It was nearly a week before Biorn recovered his 
 spirits after this adventure, and it was noticeable that 
 neither Leif nor he spoke a word to each other on the 
 matter. But the boy thought much, and from that 
 night he had a new purpose. It seemed that he was 
 fated to travel far, and his fancy forsook the homely 
 life of his own wicks and fells and reached to that out- 
 world of which he had heard in the winter's talk by 
 the hall fire. 
 
 There were plenty of folk in Hightown to satisfy 
 his curiosity. There were the Bearsarks, who would 
 
22 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 spin tales of the rich Prankish lands and the green isles 
 of the Gael. From the Skridfinns he heard of the 
 bitter country in the north where the Jotuns dwelt, and 
 the sun was not and the frost split the rocks to dust, 
 while far underground before great fires the dwarves 
 were hammering gold. But these were only old wives' 
 tales, and he liked better the talk of the sea-going 
 franklins, who would sail in the summer time on 
 trading ventures and pushed farther than any galleys 
 of war. The old sailor, Othere Cranesfoot, was but 
 now back from a voyage which had taken him to 
 Snowland, or, as we say, Iceland. He could tell of the 
 Curdled Sea, like milk set apart for cheese-making, 
 which flowed as fast as a river, and brought down 
 ghoulish beasts and great dragons in its tide. He told, 
 too, of the Sea-walls which were the end of the world, 
 waves higher than any mountain, which ringed the 
 whole ocean. He had seen them, blue and terrible one 
 dawn, before he had swung his helm round and fled 
 southwards. And in Snowland and the ports of the 
 Isles this Othere had heard talk from others of a 
 fine land beyond the sunset, where corn grew unsown 
 like grass, and the capes looked like crusted cow-pats 
 they were so thick with deer, and the dew of the night 
 was honey-dew, so that of a morning a man might 
 breakfast delicately off the face of the meadows. 
 
 Full of such marvels, Biorn sought Leif and poured 
 out his heart to him. For the first time he spoke of 
 the weird-wife's spacing. If his fortune lay in the 
 west, there was the goal to seek. He would find the 
 happy country and reign over it. But Leif shook his 
 head, for he had heard the story before. "To get 
 there you will have to ride over Bilrost, the Rainbow 
 Bridge, like the Gods. I know of the place. It is 
 called Gundbiom's Reef and it is beyond the world." 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 23 
 
 AH this befell in Biom's eleventh summer. The 
 mnter which followed brought ill luck to Hightown 
 and notably to Ironbeard the King. For in the autumn 
 the Queen, that gentle lady, fell sick, and, though 
 leeches were sought for far and near, and spells and 
 runes were prepared by all who had skill of them, her 
 life ebbed fast and ere Yule she was laid in the Howe 
 of the Dead. The loss of her made Thorwald 
 grimmer and more silent than before, and there was 
 no feasting at the Yule high-tide and but little at the 
 spring merry-making. As for Biorn he sorrowed 
 bitterly for a week, and then, boylike, forgot his grief 
 in the wonder of living. 
 
 But that winter brought death in another form. 
 Storms never ceased, and in the New Year the land 
 lay in the stricture of a black frost which froze the 
 beasts in the byres and made Biorn shiver all the night 
 through, though in ordinary winter weather he was 
 hardy enough to dive in the ice-holes. The stock of 
 meal fell low, and when spring tarried famine drew 
 very near. Such a spring no man living remembered. 
 The snow lay deep on the shore till far into May. And 
 when the winds broke they were cold sunless gales 
 which nipped the young life in the earth. The plough- 
 ing was backward, and the seed-time was a month too 
 late. The new-born lambs died on the fells and there 
 fdl a wasting sickness among the cattle. Few salmon 
 ran up the streams, and the sea-fish seemed to have 
 gone on a journey. Even in summer, the pleasant time, 
 food was scarce, for the grass in the pastures was poor 
 and the cows gave little milk, and the children died. It 
 foreboded a black harvest-time and a blacker winter. 
 
 With these misfortunes a fever rose in the blood of 
 the men of Hightown. Such things had happened 
 before, for the Norland was never more than one stage 
 
24 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 distant from famine; and in the old days there had 
 been but a single remedy. Food and wealth must be 
 won from a foray overseas. It was years since Iron- 
 beard had ridden Egir's road to the rich lowlands, and 
 the Bearsarks were growing soft from idleness. Iron- 
 beard himself was willing, for his hall was hateful to 
 him since the Queen's death. Moreover, there was 
 no other way. Food must be found for the winter or 
 the folk would perish. 
 
 So a hosting was decreed at harvest-tide, for few 
 men would be needed to win the blasted crops; and 
 there began a jointing of shields and a burnishing of 
 weapons, and the getting ready of the big ships. Also 
 there was a great sortilege-making. Whither to steer, 
 that was the question. There were the rich coasts of 
 England, but they were well guarded, and many of the 
 Norland race were along the wardens. The isles of 
 the Gael were in like case, and, though they were the 
 easier prey, there was less to be had from them. There 
 were soon two parties in the hall, one urging Ironbeard 
 to follow the old track of his kin westward, another 
 looking south to the Frankish shore. The King him- 
 self, after the sacrifice of a black heifer, cast the sacred 
 twigs, and they seemed to point to Frankland. Old 
 Arnwulf was deputed on a certain day to hallow three 
 ravens and take their guidance, but, though he said 
 three times the Ravens' spell, he got no clear counsel 
 from the wise birds. Last of all, the weird-wife Katla 
 came from Sigg, and for the space of three days sat in 
 the hall with her head shrouded, taking no meat or 
 drink. When at last she spoke she prophesied ill. She 
 saw a red cloud and it descended on the heads of the 
 warriors, yea of the King himself. As for Hightown 
 she saw it frozen deep in snow like Jotunheim, and 
 rime lay on it like a place long dead. But she bade 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 25 
 
 Ironbeard go to Frankland, for it was so written. 
 
 "A great kingdom waits," she said — "not for you, 
 but for the seed of your loins." And Biorn shuddered, 
 for they were the words spoken in her hut on that 
 unforgotten midsummer night. 
 
 The boy was in an agony lest he should be left 
 behind. But his father decreed that he should go. 
 "These are times when manhood must come fast," 
 he said. "He can bide within the Shield-ring when 
 blows are going. He will be safe enough if it holds. 
 If it breaks, he will sup like the rest of us with Odin." 
 
 Then came days of bustle and preparation. Biorn 
 was agog with excitement and yet solemnised, for there 
 was strange work afoot in Hightown. The King made 
 a great festival in the Gods' House, the dark hall near 
 the Howe of the Dead, where no one ventured except 
 in high noon. Cattle were slain in honour of Thor, 
 the God who watched over forays, and likewise a great 
 boar for Frey. The blood was caught up in the sacred 
 bowls, from which the people were sprinkled, and 
 smeared on the altar of blackened fir. Then came the 
 oath-taking, when Ironbeard and his Bearsarks swore 
 brotherhood in battJe upon the ship's bulwarks, and 
 the shield's rim, and the horse's shoulder, and the 
 brand's edge. There followed the mixing of blood in 
 the same footprint, a rite to which Biorn was admitted, 
 and a lesser oath for all the people on the great gold 
 ring which lay on the altar. But most solemn of all 
 was the vow the King made to his folk, warriors and 
 franklins alike, when he swore by the dew, the eagle's 
 path, and the valour of Thor. 
 
 Then it v/as Biorn's turn. He was presented to the 
 High Gods as the prince and heir. 
 
 Old Amwulf hammered on his left arm a torque of 
 
26 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 rough gold, which he must wear always, in life and 
 in death. 
 
 "I bring ye the boy, Biorn Thorwaldson. When 
 the Gods call for Thorwald it will be his part to lead 
 the launchings and the seafarings and be first when 
 blows are going. Do ye accept him, people of High- 
 town?" 
 
 There was a swelling cry of assent and a beating of 
 hafts on shields. 'Biiorn's heart was lifted with pride, 
 but out of a corner of his eye he saw his father's 
 face. It was very grave, and his gaze was on vacancy. 
 
 Though it was a time of bustle, there was no joy in 
 it, as there had been at other hostings. The folk 
 were too hungry, the need was too desperate, and there 
 was something else, a shadow of fate, which lay over 
 Hightown. In fehe dark of night men had seen the 
 bale-fires -burning on the Howe of the Dead. A grey 
 seal had been heard speaking with tongues off Siggness, 
 and speaking ill words, said the fishermen who saw the 
 beast. A white reindeer had appeared on Sunfell, and 
 the hunter who followed it had not been seen again. 
 By day, too, there was a brooding of hawks on the 
 tide's edge, which was strange at that season. Worst 
 portent of all, the floods of August were followed by 
 high north-east winds that swept the clouds before 
 them, so that all day the sky was a scurrying sea of 
 ^sapour, and at night the moon showed wild grey 
 sihapes moving ever to the west. The dullest couM 
 not mistake their meaning; these were the dark horses, 
 arid their riders, the Helmed Maidens, mustering for 
 the battle to which Hightown was faring. 
 
 As Biorn stared one night at the thronged heavens, 
 he found Leif by his elbow. In front of the dark 
 company of the sky a white cloud was scudding, tinged 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 27 
 
 with the pale moon. Leif quoted from the speech of 
 the Giant-wife Rimegerd to Helgi in the song: 
 
 " Three nines of maidens ride. 
 But one rides before them, 
 A •white maid helmed: 
 From their manes the steeds shake 
 Deixj into the deep dales. 
 Hail upon the high luoods." 
 
 "It bodes well," said Biorn. "They ride to choose 
 those whom we slay. There will be high doings ere 
 Yule." 
 
 "Not so well," said Leif. "They come from the 
 Norland, and it is our folk they go to choose. I fear 
 me Hightown will soon be full of widow women." 
 
 At last came the day of sailing. The six galleys of 
 war were brought down from their sheds, and on the 
 rollers for the launching he-goats were bound so that 
 the keels slid bliood-stained into the sea. This was thfe 
 'roller-reddening,' a custom bequeathed from their 
 forefathers, though the old men of the place muttered 
 darkly that the ritual had been departed from, and 
 that in the great days it was the blood not of goats, 
 but df captive foemen that had reddened the galleys 
 and the tide. 
 
 The thrall's sat at the thwarts, for there was no 
 breeze that day in the narrow firth. Then came the 
 chief warriors in short fur jackets, splendid in glitter- 
 ing helms and byrnies, and each with his thrall bearing 
 his battle-axe. Followed the fighting commonalty with 
 axe and spear. Last came Ironbeard, stern as ever, 
 and Biorn with his heast torn between eagerness and 
 regret. Only the children, fehe women, and the oW men 
 were left in Hightown, and they stood on the shingle 
 watching till the last galley had passed out of sight 
 beyond Siggness, and was swallowed up in the brume 
 
28 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 that cloaked the west. There were no tears in that 
 grim leave-taking. Hightown had faced the like be- 
 fore with a heavy heart, but with dry eyes and a proud 
 head. Leif, though a cripple, went with the Wickings, 
 for he had great skill of the sea. 
 
 There was not a breath of wind for three days and 
 three nights, as they coasted southward, -with the peaks 
 of the Norland on their port, and to starboard the 
 skerries tha-t kept guard on the firths. Through the 
 haze they could now and then see to landward trees 
 and cliffs, but never a human face. Once there was 
 an alarm of another fleet, and the shields were slung 
 outboard, but it* proved to be only a wedding-party 
 passing from wick to wick, and they gave it greeting 
 and sailed on. These were eerie cheerless days. The 
 thralls sweated in shifts at the oars, and the better- 
 bom talked low among themselves, as if the air were 
 full of ears. "Ran is heating her ovens," said Leif, 
 as he watched the warm fog mingle with the oar- 
 thresh. 
 
 On the fourth morning there came a break in the 
 clouds, and the sight of a high hill gave Leif the clue 
 for his reckoning. The prows swung seaward, and 
 the galleys steered for the broad ocean. That after- 
 noon there sprang up the north-east wind for which 
 they had been waiting. Sails were hoisted on the short 
 masts, oars were shipped and lashed under tJie bul- 
 warks, and the thralls cluste^red in the prows to rest 
 their weary limbs and dite with knuddebones. The 
 spirits of all lightened, and there was loud talk in the 
 sterns among the Bearsarks. In the night the wind 
 freshened, and the long shallow boats rolled filthily 
 so that the teeth shook in a man's head, and over the 
 swish of the waves and the creaking of the sheets there 
 was a perpetual din of arms clashing. Biom was 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 29 
 
 miserably ill for some hours, and made sport fpr the 
 seasoned voyagers. 
 
 "It will not hold," Leif prophesied, "I smell rime 
 ahead and quiet seas." 
 
 He had spoken truly, for the sixth day the wind 
 fell and they moved once more over still, misty waters. 
 The thralls returned to their oars and the voites of 
 the well-born fell low again. These were ghoulish 
 days for Biorn, who had been: accustomed to the clear 
 lights and the clear darkness of his own land. Only 
 once in four "days they saw the sun, and then it was as 
 red as blood, so that hrs heart trembled. 
 
 On the eleventh day Ironbeard summoned Leif and 
 asked his skill of the voyage. "I know not," was 
 the answer. "I* cannot steer a course except under 
 clean skies. We ran well with the wind aback, but now 
 I am blind and the Gods are pilots. Some day soon 
 we must make landfall, but I know not whether on 
 English or Prankish shores." 
 
 After that Leif would sit in long spells of brooding, 
 for he bad a. sense in him of direction to which he 
 sought to give free play — a sense built up from old 
 voyages over these very seas. The result of his 
 meditations was that he swung more to the south, and 
 events proved him wise. For on the fifteenth day came 
 a lift in the fog and with it the noise of tides washing 
 near at hand on a rough coast. Suddenly almost 
 overhead they were aware of a great white headland, 
 on the summit of which the sun shone on grass. 
 
 Leif gave a shout. "My skill has not failed me," 
 he cried. "We enter the Frankish firth. See, there 
 is the butt of England !" 
 
 After that the hehns were swung round, and a course 
 laid south by west. And then the mist came again, 
 but this time it was less of a shroud, for birds hovered 
 
30 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 about their wake, so that they were always conscious 
 of I'and. Because of the strength of the tides the 
 rowers m'ade slow progress, and it was not till the late 
 afternoon of the seventeenth day that Leif approached 
 Ironbeard with a proud head and spoke a word. The 
 King nodded, and Leif took his stand in the prow with 
 the lead in his hand. The sea mirroring the mist was 
 leaden dull, but the old pilot smelt shoal water. 
 
 Warily he sounded, till suddenly out of the gloom 
 a spit of land rose on the port, and it was clear that 
 they were entering the mouth of a river. The six 
 galleys jolted across the sandbar, Leif in the foremost 
 peering ahead and shouting every now and then an 
 order. It was fine weather for a surprise landing. 
 Biorn saw only low sand-dunes green with coarse 
 grasses and, somewhere behind, the darkness of a 
 forest. But he could not tear his eyes from it, for it 
 was the long-dreamed-of Roman land. 
 
 Then a strange thing befell. A madness seemed to 
 come on Leif. He left his pilot's stand and rushed 
 to the stem where the King stood. Flinging himself 
 on his knees, he clasped Ironbeard's legs and poured 
 out supplications. 
 
 "Return!" he cried. "While there is yet time, 
 return. Seek England, Gael-land, anywhere, but not 
 this place. I see blood in the stream and blood on 
 the strand. Our blood, your blood, my King ! There 
 js doom for the folk of Thorwald by this river!" 
 
 The King's face did not change. "What will be, 
 will be," he said gravely. "We abide by our purpose 
 and will take what Thor sends with a stout heart. 
 How say you, my brave ones ?" 
 
 And all shouted to go forward, for the sight of a 
 new country had fired their blood. Leif sat huddled 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 31 
 
 by the bulwarks, with a white face and a gasp in his 
 throat, like one coming out of a swoon. 
 
 They went ashore at a bend of the stream where 
 was a sandy cape, beached the galleys, felled trees from 
 the neighbouring forest and built them a stockade. 
 The dying sun flushed water and wood with angry 
 crimson, and Biom observed that the men wrought as 
 it were in a world of blood. "That is the meaning of 
 Leif's whimsies," he thought, and so comforted him- 
 self. 
 
 That night the Northmen slept in peace, but the 
 scouts brought back word of a desert country, no men 
 or cattle, and ashes where once had been dwellings. 
 
 "Our kinsfolk have been here before us," said King 
 Ironbeard grimly. He did not love the Danes, though 
 he had fought by their side. 
 
 Half the force was left as a guard by the ships, and 
 next day the rest went forward up the valley at a slant 
 from the river's course. For that way, ran the tale, 
 lay a great Roman house, a palace of King Kristni, 
 where much gold was to be had for the lifting. By 
 midday they were among pleasant meadows, but the 
 raiders had been there, for the houses were fired and 
 the orchards hacked down. Then came a shout and, 
 turning back, they saw a flame spring to the pale 
 autumn skies. "The ships!" rose the cry, and the 
 lightest of foot were sent back for news. 
 
 They returned with a sorry tale. Of the ships and 
 the stockade nothing remained but hot cinders. Half 
 the guard were dead, and old Arnwulf, the captain, 
 lay blood-eagled on the edge of the tide. The others 
 had gone they knew not where, but doubtless into the 
 forests. 
 
 "Our kinsfolks' handiwork," said Ironbeard. "We 
 are indeed forestalled, my heroes." 
 
32 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 A council was held and it was resolved to make a 
 camp by the stream and defend it against all comers, 
 till such time as under Leif's guidance new ships could 
 be built. 
 
 "Axes will never ring on them," said Leif under his 
 breath. He walked now like a man who was fey and 
 his face was that of another world. 
 
 He spoke truth, for as they moved towards the 
 riverbank, just before the darkening, in a glade be- 
 tween two forests Fate met them. There was barely 
 time to form the Shield-ring ere their enemies were 
 upon them — a mass of wild men in wolves' skins and 
 at their head mounted warriors in byrnies, with long 
 swords that flashed and fell. 
 
 Biorn saw little of the battle, wedged in the heart 
 of the Shield-ring. He heard the shouts of the enemy, 
 and the clangour of blows, and the sharp intake of 
 breath, but chiefly he heard the beating of his own 
 heart. The ring swayed and moved as it gave before 
 the onset or pressed to an attack of its own, and Biorn 
 found himself stumbling over the dead. "I am Biorn, 
 and my father is King," he repeated to himself, the 
 spell he had so often used when on the fells or the 
 firths he had met fear. 
 
 Night came and a young moon, and still the fight 
 continued. But the Shield-ring was growing ragged, 
 for the men of Hightown were fighting one to eight, 
 and these are odds that cannot last. Sometimes it 
 would waver, and an enemy would slip inside, and 
 before he sank dead would have sorely wounded one 
 of Ironbeard's company. 
 
 And now Biorn could see his father, larger than 
 human, it seemed, in the dim light, swinging his sword 
 Tyrf ng, and crooning to himself as he laid low his 
 antagonists. At the sight a madness rose in the boy's 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 33 
 
 heart. Behind in the sky clouds were banking, dark 
 clouds like horses, with one ahead white and moon- 
 tipped, the very riders he had watched with Leif from 
 the firth shore. The Walkyries were come for the 
 chosen, and he would fain be one of them. All fear 
 had gone from him. His passion was to be by his 
 father's side and strike his small blow beside those 
 mighty ones which Thor could not have bettered. 
 
 But even as he was thus uplifted the end came. 
 Thorwald Thorwaldson tottered and went down, for 
 a hurled axe had cleft him between helm and byrnie. 
 With him fell the last hope of Hightown and the 
 famished clan under Sunfell. The Shield-ring was no 
 more. Biom found himself swept back as the press 
 of numbers overbore the little knot of sorely wounded 
 men. Someone caught him by the arm and snatched 
 him from the mellay into the cover of a thicket. He 
 saw dimly that it was Leif. 
 
 He was giddy and retching from weariness, and 
 something inside him was cold as ice, though his head 
 burned. It was not rage or grief, but awe, for his 
 father had fallen and the end of the world had come. 
 The noise of the battle died, as the two pushed through 
 the undergrowth and came into the open spaces of the 
 wood. It was growing very dark, but still Leif 
 dragged him onwards. Then suddenly he fell forward 
 on his face, and Biorn, as he stumbled over him, found 
 his hands wet with blood. 
 
 "I am for death," Leif whispered. "Put your ear 
 close, prince. I am Leif the Outborn and I know the 
 hidden things. . . . You are the heir of Thorwald 
 Thorwaldson and you will not die. ... I see a long 
 road, but at the end a great kingdom. Farewell, little 
 Biorn. We have been good comrades, you and I. . 
 Katla from Sigg spoke the true word. • .< - ." 
 
34 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 And when Biorn fetched water in his horn from a 
 woodland pool he found Leif with a cold brow. 
 
 Blind with sorrow and fatigue, the boy stumbled on, 
 without purpose. He was lonely in the wide world, 
 many miles from his home, and all his kin were slain. 
 Rain blew from the south-west and beat in his face, 
 the brambles tore his legs, but he was dead to all 
 things. Would that the Shield Maids had chosen him 
 to go with that brave company to the bright hall of 
 Odin ! But he was only a boy and they did not choose 
 striplings. 
 
 Suddenly in a clearing a pin-point of light pricked 
 the darkness. 
 
 The desire for human companionship came over 
 him, even though it were that of enemy or outcast. 
 He staggered to the door and beat on it feebly. A 
 voice spoke from within, but he did not hear what it 
 said. 
 
 Again he beat and again the voice came. And now 
 his knocking grew feebler, for he was at the end of 
 his strength. 
 
 Then the bar was suddenly withdrawn and he was 
 looking inside a poor hut, smoky from the wood-fire 
 in the midst of it. An old woman sat by it with a bowl 
 in her hand, and an oldish man with a cudgel stood 
 before him. He did not understand their speech, but 
 he gathered he was being asked his errand. 
 
 "I am Biorn," he said, "and my father was Iron- 
 beard, the King." 
 
 They shook their heads, but since they saw only a 
 weary, tattered boy they lost their fears. They invited 
 him indoors, and their voices were kindly. Nodding 
 with exhaustion, he was given a stool to sit on and a 
 bowl of coarse porridge was put into his hands. They 
 
HIGHTOWN UNDER SUNFELL 35 
 
 plied him with questions, but he could make nothing 
 of their tongue. 
 
 Then the thrall rose, yawned, and dropped the bar 
 over the door. The Sound was to the boy like the 
 clanging of iron gates on his old happy world. For a 
 moment he was on the brink of tears. But he set his 
 teeth and stiffened his drooping neck. 
 
 "I am Biorn," he said aloud, "and my father was 
 a king." 
 
 They nodded to each other and smiled. They 
 though his words were a grace before meat. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN 
 
 THE little hut among the oak trees was dim In the 
 October twilight on the evening of St. Callixtus' 
 Day. It ha,d been used by swineherds, for the earthen 
 floor was puddled by the feet of generations of hogs, 
 and in the corner lay piles of rotting acorns. Outside 
 the mist had filled the forest, and the ways were 
 muffled with fallen leaves, so that the four men who 
 approached the place came as stealthily as shades. 
 
 They reconnoitred a moment at the entrance, for 
 it was a country of war. 
 
 "Quarters for the night," said one, and put his 
 shoulder to the door of oak-toppings hinged on strips 
 of cowhide. 
 
 But he had not taken a step inside before he hastily 
 withdrew. 
 
 "There Is something there," he cried — "something 
 that breathes. A light, Gil." 
 
 One of the four lit a lantern from his flint and poked 
 it within. It revealed the foul floor and the rotting 
 acorns, and in the far corner, on a bed of withered 
 boughs, something dark which might be a man. They 
 stood still and listened. There was the sound of 
 painful breathing, and then the gasp with which a sick 
 man wakens. A figure disengaged Itself from the 
 shadows. Seeing It was but one man, the four pushed 
 inside, and the last pulled the door to behind him. 
 
 .?6 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 37 
 
 "What have we here?" the leader cried. A man 
 had dragged himself to his feet, a short, square fellow, 
 who held himself erect with a grip on a side-post. His 
 eyes were vacant, dazzled by the light and also by pain. 
 He seemed to have had hard usage that day, for his 
 shaggy locks were matted with blood from a sword-cut 
 above his forehead, one arm hung limp, and his tunic 
 was torn and gashed. He had no weapons but a knife 
 which he held blade upwards in the hollow of his big 
 hand. 
 
 The four who confronted him were as ill-looking a 
 quartet as Duke William's motley host could show. 
 One, the leader, was an unfrocked priest of Rouen; 
 one was a hedge-robber from the western marches who 
 had followed Alan of Brittany; a third had the olive 
 cheeks and the long nose of the south ; and the fourth 
 was a heavy German from beyond the Rhine. They 
 were the kites that batten on the offal of war, and, 
 the great battle on the seashore having been won by 
 better men, were creeping into the conquered land for 
 the firstfruits of Its plunder. 
 
 "An English porker," cried the leader. "We will 
 have the tusks off him." Indeed, in the wild lijght the 
 wounded man, with his flat face and forked beard, had 
 the look of a boar cornered by hounds. 
 
 " 'Ware his teeth," said the one they called Gil. 
 "He has a knife in his trotter." 
 
 The evil faces of the four were growing merry. 
 They were worthless soldiers, but adepts In murder. 
 Loot was their first thought, but after that furtive 
 S'laylng. There seemed nothing to rob here, but there 
 was weak flesh to make sport of. 
 
 Gil warily crept on one side, where he held his spear 
 ready. The ex-prlest, who had picked up somewhere 
 a round English buckler, gave the orders. "I will 
 
38 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 run in on him, and take his stroke, so you be ready 
 to close. There is nothing to be feared from the 
 swine. See, he is blooded and faints." 
 
 The lantern had been set on the ground by the door 
 and revealed only the lower limbs of the four. Their 
 heads were murky in shadow. Their speech was 
 foreign to the wounded man, but he saw their purpose. 
 He was clearly foredone with pain, but his vacant eyes 
 kindled to slow anger, and he shook back his hair so 
 that the bleeding broke out again on his forehead. He 
 was as silent as an old tusker at bay. 
 
 The ex-priest gave the word and the four closed in 
 on him. He defeated their plan by hurling himself on 
 the leader's shield, so that his weight bore him back- 
 wards and he could not use his weapon. The spears 
 on the flanks failed for the same reason, and the two 
 men posted there had well-nigh been the death of each 
 other. The fourth, the one from the south, whose 
 business it had been to support the priest, tripped and 
 fell sprawling beside the lantern. 
 
 The Englishman had one arm round the priest's 
 neck and was squeezing the breath out of him. But 
 the blood of the four was kindling, and they had ven- 
 geance instead of sport to seek. Mouthing curses, the 
 three of them went to the rescue of the leader, and a 
 weaponless and sore-wounded man cannot strive with 
 such odds. They overpowered him, bending his arms 
 viciously back and kicking his broken head. Their 
 oaths filled the hut with an ugly clamour, but no sound 
 came from their victim. 
 
 Suddenly a gust of air set the lantern flickering, and 
 a new-comer stood in the doorway. He picked up the 
 light and looked down on the struggle. He was a tall, 
 very lean man, smooth faced, and black haired, 
 helmetless and shieldless, but wearing the plated 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 39 
 
 hauberk of the soldier. There was no scabbard on his 
 left side, but his right hand held a long bright sword. 
 
 For a second he lifted the light high, while he took 
 in the scene. His eyes were dark and dancing, like 
 the ripples on a peat stream. "So-ho !" he said softly. 
 "Murder! And by our own vermin I" 
 
 He appeared to brood for a second, and then he 
 acted. For he set the light very carefully in the crook 
 of a joist so that it illumined the whole hut. Then 
 -he reached out a hand, plucked the ex-priest from his 
 quarry, and, swinging him in both arms, tossed him 
 through the door into the darkness. It would seem 
 that he fell hard, for there was a groan and then 
 silence. 
 
 "One less," he said softly. 
 
 The three had turned to face him, warned by Gil's 
 exclamation, and found themselves looking at the 
 ominous bar of light which was his sword. Cornered 
 like rats, they took small comfort from the odds. 
 They were ready to surrender, still readier to run, and 
 they stood on their defence with no fight in their faces, 
 whining in their several patois. All but the man from 
 the south. He was creeping round in the darkness by 
 the walls, and had in his hands a knife. No mailed 
 hauberk protected the interloper's back and there was 
 a space there for steel to quiver between his shoulder 
 blades. 
 
 The newcomer did not see, but the eyes of the 
 wounded man seemed to have been cleared by the 
 scuffle. He was now free, and from the floor he 
 snatched the round shield which the ex-priest had 
 carried, and hurled it straight at the creeping mis- 
 creant. It was a heavy oaken thing with rim and boss 
 of iron, and it caught him fairly above the ear, so that 
 he dropped like a poled ox. The stranger turned his 
 
40 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 head to see what was happening. "A lucky shot, 
 friend," he cried. "I thank you," And he addressed 
 himself to the two pitiful bandits who remained. 
 
 But their eyes were looking beyond him to the door, 
 and their jaws had dropped in terror. For from out- 
 side came the sound of horses' hooves and bridles, and 
 two riders had dismounted and were peering into the 
 hut. The first was a very mountain of a man, whose 
 conical helmet surmounted a vast pale face, on which 
 blond moustaches hung like the teeth of a walrus. The 
 said helmet was grievously battered, and the nose-piece 
 was awry as if from some fierce blow, but there was 
 no scar on the skin. His long hauberk was wrought 
 in scales of steel and silver, and the fillets which bound 
 his great legs were of fine red leather. Behind him 
 came a grizzled squire, bearing a kite-shaped shield 
 painted with the cognisance of a dove. 
 
 "What have we here?" said the knight in a reedy 
 voice like a boy's. His pale eyes contemplated the 
 figures — the wounded man, now faint again with pain 
 and half-fallen on the litter of branches ; his deliverer, 
 tall and grim, but with laughing face; the two mur- 
 derers cringing in their fear; in a corner the huddled 
 body of the man from the south half hidden by the 
 shield. "Speak, fellow," and he addressed the sol- 
 dier. "What work has been toward? Have you not 
 had your bellyful of battles that you must scrabble like 
 rats in this hovel? What are you called, and whence 
 come you?" 
 
 The soldier lifted his brow, looked his questioner 
 full in the face, and, as if liking what he found there, 
 bowed his head in respect. The huge man had the 
 air of one to be obeyed. 
 
 "I am of the Duke's army," he said, "and was sent 
 on to reconnoitre the forest roads. I stumbled on this 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 41 
 
 hut and found four men about to slay a wounded 
 English. One lies outside where I flung him, another 
 is there with a cracked skull, and you have before you 
 the remnant." 
 
 The knight seemed to consider. "And why should 
 a soldier of the Duke's be so careful of English lives?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "I would help my lord Duke to conquer this land," 
 was the answer. "We have broken their army and 
 the way is straight before us. We shall have to fight 
 other armies, but we cannot be fighting all our days, 
 and we do not conquer England till England accepts 
 us. I have heard enough of that stubborn people to 
 know that the way to win them is not by murder. A 
 fair fight, and then honest dealing and mercy, say I." 
 
 The knight laughed. "A Solomon in judgment," 
 he cried. "But who are you that bear a sword and 
 wear gold on your finger?" 
 
 The old squire broke in. "My lord Count, I know 
 the man. He is a hunter of the Lord Odo's, and has 
 a name for valour. He wrought mightily this morning 
 on the hill. They call him Jehan the Hunter, and 
 sometimes Jehan the Outborn, for no man knows his 
 comings. There is a rumour that he is of high blood, 
 and truly in battle he bears himself like a prince. The 
 monks loved him not, but the Lord Odo favoured 
 him." 
 
 The knight looked steadily for the space of a 
 moment at the tall soldier, and his light eyes seemed 
 to read deep. "Are you that man," he asked at last, 
 and got the reply: "I am Jehan the Hunter." 
 
 "Bid my fellows attend to yon scum," he told his 
 squire. "The camp marshal will have fruit for his 
 gallows. The sweepings of all Europe have drifted 
 with us to England, and it is our business to make 
 
42 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 bonfire of them before they breed a plague. . . . See 
 to the wounded man, likewise. He may be one of the 
 stout house-carles who fought with Harold at Stam- 
 ford, and to meet us raced like a gale through the 
 length of England. By the Mount of the Archangel, 
 I would fain win such mettle to our cause." 
 
 Presently the hut was empty save for the two sol- 
 diers, who faced each other while the lantern flickered 
 to its end on the "rafters. 
 
 "The good Odo is dead," said the knight. "An 
 arrow in the left eye has bereft our Duke of a noble 
 ally and increased the blessedness of the City of 
 Paradise. You are masterless now. Will you ride 
 with me on my service, you Jehan the Hunter? It 
 would appear that we are alike in our ways of think- 
 ing. They call me the Dove from the shield I bear, 
 and a dove I seek to be in the winning of England. 
 The hawk's task is over when the battle is won, and 
 he who has but the sword for weapon is no hawk, but 
 carrion-crow. We have to set our Duke on the throne, 
 but that is but the first step. There are more battles 
 before us, and when they are ended begins the slow 
 task of the conquest of English hearts. How say you, 
 Jehan? Will you ride north with me on this errand, 
 and out of the lands which are granted me to govern 
 have a corner on which to practise your creed?" 
 
 So it befell that Jehan the Hunter, sometimes called 
 Jehan the Outborn, joined the company of Ivo of 
 Dives, and followed him when Duke William swept 
 northward laughing his gross jolly laughter and swear- 
 ing terribly by the splendour of God. 
 
 II 
 
 Two years later in the same month of the year Jehan 
 rode east out of Ivo's new castle of Belvoir to visit 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 43 
 
 the manor of which, by the grace of God and the King 
 and the favour of the Count of Dives, he was now the 
 lord. By the Dove's side he had been north to Dur- 
 ham and west to the Welsh marches, rather on falcon's 
 than on dove's errands, for Ivo held that the crooning 
 of peace notes came best after hard blows. But at 
 his worst he was hawk and not crow, and malice did 
 not follow his steps. The men he beat had a rude 
 respect for one who was just and patient in victory, and 
 whose laughter did not spare himself. Like master 
 like man; and Jehan was presently so sealed of Ivo's 
 brotherhood that in the tales of the time the two 
 names were rarely separate. The jealous, swift to 
 deprecate good fortune, spared the Outborn, for it was 
 observed that he stood aside while others scrambled 
 for gain. Also, though no man knew his birth, he bore 
 himself with the pride of a king. 
 
 When Ivo's raw stone towers faded In the blue dis- 
 tance, the road led from shaggy uplands into a forested 
 plain, with knolls at intervals which gave the traveller 
 a prospect of sullen levels up to the fringe of the fens 
 and the line of the sea. Six men-at-arms jolted at his 
 back on little country-bred horses, for Jehan did his 
 tasks with few helpers ; and they rode well In the rear, 
 for he loved to be alone. The weather was all October 
 gleams and glooms, now the sunshine of April, now 
 the purple depths of a thunderstorm. There was no 
 rain in the air, but an infinity of mist, which moved in 
 fantastic shapes, rolling close about the cavalcade, so 
 that the very road edge was obscured, now dissolving 
 into clear light, now opening up corridors at the end 
 of which some landmark appeared at an immeasurable 
 distance. In that fantastic afternoon the solid earth 
 seemed to be dissolving, and Jehan's thoughts as he 
 journeyed ranged like the mists. 
 
44 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 He told himself that he had discovered his country. 
 He, the Outborn, had come home; the landless had 
 found his settlement. He loved every acre of this 
 strange England — its changing skies, the soft pastures 
 in the valleys, the copses that clung like moss to the 
 hiUs, the wide moorland that lay quiet as a grave from 
 mountain to mountain. But this day something new 
 had been joined to his affection. The air that met him 
 from the east had that in it which stirred some antique 
 memory. There was brine in it from the unruly east- 
 em sea, and the sourness of marsh water, and the 
 sweetness of marsh herbage. As the forest thinned 
 into scrub again it came stronger and fresher, and he 
 found himself sniffing it like a hungry man at the ap- 
 proach of food. "If my manor of Highstead is like 
 this," he told himself, "I think I will lay my bones 
 there." 
 
 At a turn of the road where two grassy tracks 
 forked, he passed a graven stone now chipped and 
 moss-grown, set on noble eminence among reddening 
 thorns. It was an altar to the old gods of the land; 
 there had been another such in the forest of his 
 childhood. The priest had told him it was the shrine 
 of the Lord Apollo and forljade him on the pain of 
 a mighty cursing to do reverence to it. Nevertheless 
 he had been wont to doff his cap wlien he passed it, 
 for he respected a god that lived In the woods instead 
 of a clammy church. Now the sight of the ancient 
 thing seemed an omen. It linked up the past and the 
 present. He waved a greeting to it. "Hail, old 
 friend," he said. "Bid your master be with me, 
 whoever he be, for I go to find a home." 
 
 One of his fellows rode up to his side. "We are 
 within a mile of Highstead," he told him. "Better 
 go warily, for the King's law runs limpingly in the 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 45 
 
 fanlands. I counsel that a picket be sent forward to 
 report if the way be clear. Every churl that we 
 passed on the road will have sent news of our coming." 
 
 "So much the better," said Jehan. "Man, I come 
 not as a thief in the night. This is a daylight business. 
 If I am to live my days here I must make a fair con- 
 quest." 
 
 The man fell back sullenly, and there were anxious 
 faces in the retinue jogging twenty yards behind. But 
 no care sat on Jehan's brow. He plucked sprays of 
 autumn berries and tossed and caught them, he sang 
 gently to himself and spoke his thoughts to his horse. 
 Harm could not come to him when air and scene woke 
 in his heart such strange familiarity. 
 
 A last turn of the road showed Highstead before 
 him, two furlongs distant. The thatched roof of the 
 hall rose out of a cluster of shingled huts on a mound 
 defended by moat and palisade. No smoke came from 
 the dwelling, and no man was visible, but not for 
 nothing was Jehan named the Hunter. He was aware 
 that every tuft of reed and scrog of wood concealed a 
 spear or a bowman. So he set his head stiff and 
 laughed, and hummed a bar of a song which the ferry- 
 men used to sing on Seine side. "A man does not fight 
 to win his home," he told his horse, "but only to defend 
 it when he has won it. If God so wills I shall be wel- 
 comed with open gates : otherwise there will be burying 
 ere nightfall." 
 
 In this fashion he rode steadfastly toward the 
 silent burg. Now he was within a stone's throw of it, 
 and no spear had been launched; now he was before 
 the massive oaken gate. Suddenly it swung open and 
 a man came out. He was a short, square fellow who 
 limped, and, half hidden by his long hair, a great scar 
 showed white on his forehead. 
 
46 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "In whose name?" he asked in the English tongue. 
 
 "In the name of our lord the King and the Earl 
 Ivo." 
 
 "That is no passport," said the man. 
 
 "In my own name, then, — ^in the name of Jehan the 
 Hunter." 
 
 The man took two steps forward and laid a hand on 
 the off stirrup. Jehan leaped to the ground and kissed 
 him on both cheeks. 
 
 "We have met before, friend," he said, and he 
 took between his palms the joined hands of his new 
 liege. 
 
 "Two years back on the night of Hastings," said 
 the man. "But for that meeting, my lord, you had 
 tasted twenty arrows betwixt Highstead and the 
 forest." 
 
 m 
 
 "I go to visit my neighbours," said Jehan next 
 morning. 
 
 Arn the Steward stared at his master with a puzzled 
 face. "You will get a dusty welcome," he said. 
 "There is but the Lady Hilda at Galland, and her 
 brother Aelward is still at odds with your Duke." 
 
 Nevertheless Jehan rode out in a clear dawn of St. 
 Luke's summer, leaving a wondering man behind him, 
 and he rode alone, having sent back his men-at-arms 
 to Ivo. "He has the bold heart," said Arn to himself. 
 "If there be many French like him there will assuredly 
 be a new England." 
 
 At Galland, which is low down in the fen country, 
 he found a sullen girl. She met him at the bridge of 
 the Galland fen and her grey eyes flashed fire. She 
 was a tall maid, very fair to look upon, and the blue 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 47 
 
 tunic which she wore over her russet gown was cun- 
 ningly embroidered. Embroidered too with gold was 
 the hood which confined her plaited yellow hair. 
 
 "You find a defenceless house and a woman to 
 conquer," she railed. 
 
 "Long may it need no other warder," said Jehan, 
 dismounting and looking at her across the waters. 
 "The fortune of war has given me a home, mistress. 
 I would dwell in amity with my neighbours." 
 
 "Amity!" she cried in scorn. "You will get none 
 from me. My brother Aelward will do the parleying." 
 
 "So be it," he said. "Be assured I will never crdss 
 this water into Galland till you bid me." 
 
 He turned and rode home, and for a month was 
 busied with the work of his farms. When he came 
 again it was on a dark day in November, and every 
 runnel of the fens was swollen. He got the same 
 answer from the girl, and with it a warning. "Ael- 
 ward and his men wait for you in the oakshaw," she 
 told him. "I sent word to them when the thralls 
 brought news of you." And her pretty face was hard 
 and angry. 
 
 Jehan laughed. "Now, by your leave, mistress, I 
 will wait here the hour or two till nightfall. I am 
 Englishman enough to know that your folk do not 
 strike in the dark." 
 
 He returned to Highstead unscathed, and a week 
 later came a message from Aelward. "Meet me," it 
 ran, "to-morrow by the Danes' barrow at noon, and 
 we will know whether Englishman or Frenchman is to 
 bear rule in this land." 
 
 Jehan donned his hauberk and girt himself with 
 his long sword. "There will be hot work to-day in 
 that forest," he told Arn, who was busied with the 
 trussing of his mail. 
 
48 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "God prosper you, master," said the steward. 
 "Frenchman or no, you are such a man as I love. 
 Beware of Aelward and his downward stroke, for he 
 has the strength of ten." 
 
 At noon by the Danes' barrow Jehan met a young 
 tow-headed giant, who spoke with the back of his 
 throat and made surly response to the other's greeting. 
 It was a blue winter's day, with rime still white on the 
 grass, and the forest was very still. The Saxon had 
 the shorter sword and a round buckler; Jehan fought 
 only with his blade. 
 
 At the first bout they strove with steel, and were Ill- 
 matched at that, for the heavy strength of the fenman 
 was futile against the lithe speed of the hunter. Jehan 
 ringed him in circles of light, and the famous down- 
 ward stroke was expended on vacant air. He played 
 with him till he breathed heavily like a cow, and then 
 by a sleight of hand sent his sword spinning among the 
 oak mast. The young ^ant stood sulkily before him, 
 unarmed, deeply shamed, waiting on his death, but 
 with no fear in his eyes. 
 
 Jehan tossed his own blade to the ground, and 
 stripped off his hauberk. "We have fought with 
 weapons," he said, "now we will fight In the ancient 
 way." 
 
 There followed a very different contest. Aelward 
 lost his shamefastness and his slow blood fired as flesh 
 met flesh and sinew strained against sinew. His great 
 arms crushed the Frenchman till the ribs cracked, but 
 always the other slipped through and evaded the fatal 
 hug. And as the struggle continued Aelward's heart 
 warmed to his enemy. When their swords crossed he 
 had hated him like death; now he seemed to be striving 
 with a kinsman. 
 
 Suddenly, when victory looked very near, he found 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 49 
 
 the earth moving from beneath him, and a mountain 
 descended on his skull. When he blinked himself Into 
 consciousness again, Jehan was laving his head from 
 a pool In an oak-root. 
 
 "I win teach you that throw some day, friend," he 
 was saying. "Had I not known the trick of It, you 
 had mauled me sadly. I had liefer grapple with a 
 bear." 
 
 Aelward moistened his lips. "You have beat me 
 fairly, armed and weaponless," he said, and his voice 
 had no anger In It. 
 
 "Talk not of beating between neighbours," was the 
 answer. "We have played together and I have had 
 the luck of It. It will be your turn to break my head 
 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Head matters Httle," grumbled Aelward. "Mine 
 has stood harder dints. But you have broken my leg, 
 and that means a month of housekeeping." 
 
 Jehan made splints of ash for the leg, and set him 
 upon his horse, and in this wise they came to the bridge 
 of Galland fen. On the far side of the water stood the 
 Lady Hilda. He halted and waited on her bidding. 
 She gazed speechless at the horse whereon sat her 
 brother with a clouted scalp. 
 
 "What ails you. Frenchman?" said Aelward. "It 
 is but a half-grown girl of my father's begetting." 
 
 "I have vowed not to pass that bridge till yonder 
 lady bids me." 
 
 "Then for the pity of Christ bid him, sister. He and 
 I are warm with play and yearn for a flagon." 
 
 In this manner did Jehan first enter the house of 
 Galland, whence In the next cowsllp-tlme he carried a 
 bride to HIghstead. 
 
so THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 IV 
 
 The months passed smoothly in the house on the 
 knoll above the fat fen pastures. Jehan forsook his 
 woodcraft for the work of byre and furrow and sheep- 
 fold, and the yield of his lands grew under his warden- 
 ship. He brought heavy French cattle to improve the 
 little native breed, and made a garden of fruit trees 
 where once had been only bent and sedge. The thralls 
 wrought cheerfully for him, for he was a kindly mas- 
 ter, and the freemen of the manor had no complaint 
 against one who did impartial justice and respected 
 their slow and ancient ways. As for skill in hunting, 
 there was no fellow to the lord of Highstead between 
 Trent and Thames. 
 
 Inside the homestead the Lady Hilda moved hap- 
 pily, a wife smiling and well content. She had won 
 more than a husband; it seemed she had made a con- 
 vert; for daily Jehan grew into the country-side as if 
 he had been born in it. Something in the soft woodland 
 air and the sharper tang of the fens and the sea awoke 
 response from his innermost soul. An aching affection 
 was born in him for every acre of his little heritage. 
 His son, dark like his father, who made his first 
 diffident pilgrimages in the sunny close where the 
 pigeons cooed, was not more thirled to English soil. 
 
 They were quiet years in that remote place, for 
 Aelward over at Galland had made his peace with the 
 King. But when the little Jehan was four years old 
 the tides of war lapped again to the forest edges. One 
 Hugo of Auchy, who had had a usurer to his father 
 and had risen in an iron age by a merciless greed, came 
 a-foraying from the north to see how he might add to 
 his fortunes. Men called him the Crane, for he was 
 tall and lean and parchment-skinned, and to his banner 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 51 
 
 resorted all malcontents and broken men. He sought 
 to conduct a second Conquest, making war on the 
 English who still held their lands, but sparing the 
 French manors. The King's justice was slow-footed, 
 and the King was far away, so the threatened men, 
 banded together to hold their own by their own might. 
 
 Aelward brought the news from Galland that the 
 Crane had entered their borders. The good Ivo was 
 overseas, busy on the Brittany marches, and there was 
 no ruler in Fenland. 
 
 "You he will spare," Aelward told his sister's hus- 
 band. "He does not war with you new-comers. But 
 us of the old stock he claims as his prey. How say 
 you. Frenchman? Will you reason with him? Here- 
 aways we are peaceful folk, and would fain get on with 
 our harvest." 
 
 "I will reason with him," said Jehan, "and by the 
 only logic that such carrion understands. I am by your 
 side, brother. There is but the one cause for all us 
 countrymen." 
 
 But that afternoon as he walked abroad in his 
 cornlands he saw a portent. A heron rose out of the 
 shallows, and a harrier-hawk swooped to the pounce, 
 but the long bird flopped securely into the western sky, 
 and the hawk dropped at his feet, dead but with no 
 mark of a wound. 
 
 "Here be marvels," said Jehan, and with that there 
 came on him the foreknowledge of fate, which in the 
 brave heart wakes awe, but no fear. He stood silent 
 for a time and gazed over his homelands. The here 
 was shaking white and gold in the light evening wind; 
 in the new orchard he had planted the apples were 
 reddening; from the edge of the forest land rose 
 wreaths of smoke where the thralls were busy with 
 wood-clearing. There was little sound in the air, but 
 
52 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 from the steading came the happy laughter of a child, 
 Jehan stood very still, and his wistful eyes drank the 
 peace of it. 
 
 "Non nobis, Domine," he said, for a priest had once 
 had the training of him. "But I leave that which shall 
 inot.die." 
 
 ' He summoned his wife and told her of the coming 
 of the Crane. From a finger of his left hand he took 
 the thick ring of gold which Ivo had marked years 
 before in the Wealden hut. 
 
 » "I have a notion that I am going a long journey," 
 he told hef. "If I do not return, the Lord Ivo will 
 confirm the little lad in these lands of ours. But to 
 you and for his sake I make my own bequest. Wear 
 this ring for him till he is a man, and then bid him 
 wear it as his father's guerdon. I had it from my 
 father, who had it from his, and my grandfather told 
 me the tale of it. In his grandsire's day it was a 
 mighty armlet, but in the famine years it was melted 
 and part sold, and only this remains. Some one of 
 us far back was a king, and this is the badge of a 
 king's house. There comes a day, little one, when 
 the fruit of our bodies shall possess a throne. See 
 that the lad be royal in thought and deed, as he is royal 
 in blood." 
 
 Next morning he kissed his wife and fondled his 
 little son, and with his men rode northward, his eyes 
 wistful but his mouth smiling. 
 
 What followed was for generations a tale among 
 humble folk in England, who knew nothing of the 
 deeds of the King's armies. By cottage fires they wove 
 stories about it and made simple songs, the echo of 
 w'hich may still be traced by curious scholars. There 
 is something of it in the great saga of Robin Hood, 
 and long after the fens were drained women hushed 
 
THE ENGLISHMAN 53 
 
 their babies with snatches about the Crane and the 
 Falcon, and fairy tales of a certain John of the Shaws, 
 who became one with Jack the Giant-killer and all the 
 nursery heroes. 
 
 Jehan and his band met Aelward at the appointed 
 rendezvous, and soon were joined by a dozen knots 
 of lusty yeomen, who fought not only for themselves 
 but for the law of England and the peace of the new 
 king. Of the little force Jehan was appointed leader, 
 and once again became the Hunter, stalking a baser 
 quarry than wolf or boar. For the Crane and his 
 rabble, flushed with easy conquest, kept ill watch, and 
 the tongues of forest running down to the fenland 
 made a good hunting ground for a wary forester. 
 
 Jehan's pickets found Hugo of Auchy by the Sheen 
 brook and brought back tidings. (Thereupon a subtle 
 plan was made. By day and night the invaders' camp 
 was kept uneasy; there would be sudden attacks, which 
 died down after a few blows; stragglers disappeared, 
 scouts never returned; and when a peasant was 
 brought in and forced to speak, he told with scared 
 face a tale of the great mustering of desperate men 
 in this or that quarter. The Crane was a hardy fighter, 
 but the mystery baffled him, and he became cautious, 
 and — after the fashion of his kind — credulous. Bit 
 by bit Jehan shepherded him into the trap he had pre- 
 pared. He had but one man to the enemy's six, and 
 must drain that enemy's strength before he struck. 
 Meantime the little steadings went up in flames, but 
 with every blaze seen in the autumn dusk the English 
 temper grew more stubborn. They waited confidently 
 on the reckoning. 
 
 It came on a bleak morning when the east wind blew 
 rain and fog from the sea. The Crane was in a spit of 
 open woodland, with before him and on either side 
 
54 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 deep fenland with paths known only to its dwellers. 
 Then Jehan struck. He drove his enemy to the point 
 of the dry ground, and thrust him into the marshes. 
 Not since the time of the Danes had the land known 
 such a slaying. The refuse of France and the traitor 
 English who had joined them went down like sheep 
 before wolves. When the Lord Ivo arrived in the 
 late afternoon, having ridden hot-speed from the 
 south coast when he got the tidings, he found little left 
 of the marauders save the dead on the land and the 
 scum of red on the fen pools. 
 
 Jehan lay by a clump of hazels, the blood welling 
 from an axe-wound in the neck. His face was ashen 
 with the oncoming of death, but he smiled as he 
 looked up at his lord. 
 
 "The Crane pecked me," he said. "He had a stout 
 bill, if a black heart." 
 
 Ivo wept aloud, being pitiful as he was brave. He 
 would have scoured the country for a priest. 
 
 "Farewell, old comrade," he sobbed. "Give greet- 
 ing to Odo in Paradise, and keep a place for me by 
 your side. I will nourish your son, as if he had been 
 that one of my own whom Heaven has denied me. 
 Tarry a little, dear heart, and the Priest of Glede will 
 be here to shrive you." 
 
 Through the thicket there crawled a mighty figure, 
 his yellow hair dabbled in blood, and his breath labour- 
 ing like wind in a threshing-floor. He lay down by 
 Jehan's side, and with a last effort kissed him on the 
 lips. 
 
 "Priest!" cried the dying Aelward. "What need is 
 there of priest to help us two English on our way to 
 God?" 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 
 
 FROM the bed set high on a dais came eerie spasms 
 of laughter, a harsh cackle like fowls at feeding 
 time. 
 
 "Is that the last of them, Anton?" said a voice. 
 
 A little serving-man with an apple-hued face bowed 
 in reply. He bowed with difficulty, for in his arms he 
 held a huge grey cat, which still mewed with the 
 excitement of the chase. Rats had been turned loose 
 on the floor, and it had accounted for them to the 
 accompaniment of a shrill urging from the bed. Now 
 the sport was over, and the domestics who had 
 crowded round the door to see it had slipped away, 
 leaving only Anton and the cat. 
 
 "Give Tib a full meal of offal," came the order, "and 
 away with yourself. Your rats are a weak breed. Get 
 me the stout grey monsters like Tuesday se'ennight." 
 
 The room was empty now save for two figures both 
 wearing the habit of the religious. Near the bed sat 
 a man in the full black robe and hood of the monks 
 of Cluny. He warmed plump hands at the brazier 
 and seemed at ease and at home. By the door stood 
 a different figure in the shabby clothes of a parish 
 priest, a curate from the kirk of St. Martin's who had 
 been a scandalised spectator of the rat hunt. He 
 shuffled his feet as if uncertain of his next step — a thin, 
 pale man with a pinched mouth and timid earnest eyes. 
 
 The glance from the bed fell on him. "What will 
 
 55 
 
56 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the fellow be at?" said the voice testily. "He stands 
 there like a sow about to litter, and stares and grunts. 
 Good e'en to you, friend. When you are wanted you 
 will be sent for. Jesu's name, what have I done to 
 have that howlet glowering at me?" 
 
 The priest at the words crossed himself and turned 
 to-go, with a tinge of red in his sallow cheeks. He was 
 faithful to his duties and had come to console a death- 
 bed, though he was well aware that his consolations 
 would be spumed. 
 
 As he left there came again the eerie laughter from 
 the bed. "Ugh, I am weary of that incomparable 
 holiness. He hovers about to give me the St. John's 
 Cup, and would fain speed my passing. But I do not 
 die yet, good father. There's life still In the old 
 wolf." 
 
 The monk in a bland voice spoke some Latin to the 
 effect that mortal times and seasons were ordained of 
 God. The other stretched out a skinny hand from the 
 fur coverings and rang a silver bell. When Anton 
 appeared she gave the order "Bring supper for the 
 reverend father," at which the Cluniac's face mellowed 
 into complacence. 
 
 It was a Friday evening in a hard February. Out- 
 of-doors the snow lay deep in the streets of Bruges, 
 and every canal was frozen solid so that carts rumbled 
 along them as on a street. A wind had risen which 
 drifted the powdery snow and blew icy draughts 
 through every chink. The small-paned windows of 
 the great upper-room were filled with oiled vellum, 
 but they did not keep out the weather, and currents of 
 cold air passed through them to the doorway, making 
 the smoke of the four charcoal braziers eddy and 
 swirl. The place was warm, yet shot with bitter gusts, 
 and the smell of burning herbs gave it the heaviness 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 57 
 
 of a chapel at high mass. Hanging silver lamps, which 
 blazed blue and smoky, lit it in patches, sufficient to 
 show the cleanness of the rush-strewn floor, the glory 
 of the hangings of cloth-of-gold and damask, and the 
 burnished sheen of the metal-work. There was no 
 costlier chamber in that rich city. J 
 
 It was a strange staging for death, for the woman 
 on the high bed was dying. Slowly, fighting every incb 
 of the way with a grim tenacity, but indubitably dying. 
 Her vital ardour had sunk below the mark from which 
 it could rise again, and was now ebbing as water runs 
 from a little crack in a pitcher. The best leeches in all 
 Flanders and Artois had come to doctor her. They 
 had prescribed the horrid potions of the age : tinctures 
 of earth-worms; confections of spiders and wood-lice 
 and viper's flesh ; broth of human skulls, oil, wine, ants' 
 eggs, and crabs' claws ; the hufo preparatus, which was 
 a live toad roasted in a pot and ground to a 
 powder; and innumerable plaisters and electuaries. 
 She had begun by submitting meekly, for she longed to 
 live, and had ended, for she was a shrewd woman, by 
 throwing the stuff at the apothecaries' heads. Now she 
 ordained her own diet, which was of lamb's flesh lightly 
 boiled, and woman's milk, got from a wench in the 
 purlieus of St. Sauveur. The one medicine which she 
 retained was powdered elk's horn, which had been 
 taken from the beast between two festivals of the 
 Virgin. This she had from the foresters in the 
 Houthulst woods, and swallowed it in white wine an 
 hour after every dawn. 
 
 The bed was a noble thing of ebony, brought by the 
 Rhine road from Venice, and carved with fantastic 
 hunting scenes by Hainault craftsmen. Its hangings 
 were stiff brocaded silver, and above the pillows a 
 great unicorn's horn, to protect against poisoning. 
 
58 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 stood out like the beak of a ship. The horn cast an 
 odd shadow athwart the bed, so that a big claw seemed 
 to lie on the coverlet curving towards the throat of her 
 who lay there. The parish priest had noticed this at 
 his first coming that evening, and had muttered fearful 
 prayers. 
 
 The face on the pillows was hard to discern in the 
 gloom, but when Anton laid the table for the Cluniac's 
 meal and set a lamp on it, he lit up the cavernous 
 interior of the bed, so that it became the main thing 
 in the chamber. It was the face of a woman who still 
 retained the lines and the colouring of youth. The 
 voice had harshened with age, and the hair was white 
 as wool, but the cheeks were still rosy and the grey 
 eyes still had fire. Notable beauty had once been there. 
 The finely arched brows, the oval of the face which 
 the years had scarcely sharpened, the proud, delicate 
 nose, all spoke of it. It was as if their possessor 
 recognised those things and would not part with them, 
 for her attire had none of the dishevelment of a sick- 
 room. Her coif of fine silk was neatly adjusted, and 
 the great robe of marten's fur which cloaked her shoul- 
 ders was fastened with a jewel of rubies which glowed 
 in the lamplight like a star. 
 
 Something chattered beside her. It was a little 
 brown monkey which had made a nest in the warm 
 bedclothes. 
 
 She watched with sharp eyes the setting of the table. 
 It was a Friday's meal and the guest was a monk, so 
 It followed a fashion, but in that house of wealth, 
 which had links with the ends of the earth, the 
 monotony was cunningly varied. There were oysters 
 from the Boulogne coast, and lampreys from the 
 Loire, and pickled salmon from England. There was 
 a dish of liver dressed with rice and herbs in the man- 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 59 
 
 ner of the Turk, for liver, though contained in flesh, 
 was not reckoned as flesh by liberal churchmen. There 
 ■was a roast goose from the shore marshes, that 
 barnacle bird which pious epicures classed as shell-fish 
 and thought fit for fast days. A silver basket held a 
 store of thin toasted rye-cakes, and by the monk's hand 
 stood a flagon of that drink most dear to holy palates, 
 the rich syrupy hippocras. 
 
 The woman looked on the table with approval, for 
 her house had always prided itself upon its good fare. 
 The Cluniac's urbane composure was stirred to enthu- 
 siasm. He said a Confiteor tibi Domine, rolling the 
 words on his tongue as if in anticipation of the solider 
 mouthfuls awaiting him. The keen weather had 
 whetted his appetite and he thanked God that his 
 northern peregrinations had brought him to a house 
 where the Church was thus honoured. He had liked 
 the cavalier treatment of the lean parish priest, a sour 
 dog who brought his calling into disfavour with the 
 rich and godly. He tucked back his sleeves, adjusted ^ 
 the linen napkin comfortably about his neck, and fell 
 to with a will. He raised his first glass of hippocras 
 and gave thanks to his hostess. A true mother in 
 Israel ! 
 
 She was looking at him with favour. He was the 
 breed of monk that she liked, suave, well-mannered, 
 observant of men and cities. Already he had told her 
 entertaining matter about the French King's court, and 
 the new Burgrave of Ghent, and the escapades of 
 Count Baldwin. He had lived much among gentle- 
 folk and kept his ears open. . . . She felt stronger 
 and cheerfuller than she had been for days. That 
 rat-hunt had warmed her blood. She was a long way 
 from death in spite of the cackle of idiot chirurgeons, 
 and there was much savour still in the world. There 
 
6o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 was her son, too, the young Philip. . . . Her eye saw 
 clearer, and she noted the sombre magnificence of the 
 great room, the glory of the brocade, the gleam of 
 silver. Was she not the richest woman in all Bruges, 
 aye, and in all Halnault and Guelderland? And the 
 credit was her own. After the fashion of age in such 
 moods her mind flew backward, and she saw very plain 
 a narrow street in a wind-swept town looking out on 
 a bleak sea. She had been cold, then, and hungry, and 
 deathly poor. Well, she had travelled some way from 
 that hovel. She watched the thick carved stems of the 
 candlesticks and felt a spacious ease and power. 
 
 The Cluniac was speaking. He had supped so well 
 that he was in love with the world. 
 
 "Your house and board, my lady, are queen-like. I 
 have seen worse in palaces.'' 
 
 Her laugh was only half pleased. "Too fine, you 
 would add, for a burgher wife. Maybe, but rank is 
 but as man makes it. The Kings of England are 
 sprung of a tanner. Hark you, father! I made a 
 vow to God when I was a maid, and I have fulfilled 
 my side of the bargain. I am come of a nobler race 
 than any Markgrave, aye, than the Emperor himself, 
 and I swore to set the seed of my body, which the 
 Lord might grant me, again among the great ones. 
 Have I not done it? Is not Philip, my son, affianced 
 to that pale girl of Avesnes, and with more acres of 
 pleasant land to his name than any knightlet in 
 Artois?" 
 
 The Cluniac bowed a courtly head. "It is a great 
 alliance — ^but not above the dignity of your house." 
 
 "House you call it, and I have had the making of 
 it. ' What was Willebald but a plain merchant-man, 
 one of many scores at the Friday Market? Willebald 
 was clay that I moulded and gilded till God put him 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 61 
 
 to bed under a noble lid in the New Kirk. A worthy 
 man, but loutish and slow like one of his own hookers. 
 Yet when I saw him on the plainstones by the English 
 harbour I knew that he was a weapon made for my 
 hand." 
 
 Her voice had become even and gentle as of one 
 who remembers far-away things. The Cluniac, having 
 dipped his hands in a silver basin, was drying them 
 in the brazier's heat. Presently he set to picking his 
 teeth daintily with a quill, and fell into the listener's 
 pose. From long experience he knew the atmosphere 
 which heralds confidences, and was willing to humour 
 the provider of such royal fare. 
 
 "You have never journeyed to King's Lynn?" said 
 the voice from the bed. "There is little to see there 
 but mudbars and fens and a noisy sea. There I dwelt 
 when I was fifteen years of age, a maid hungry in soul 
 and body. I knew I was of the seed of Forester John 
 and through him the child of a motley of ancient kings, 
 but war and famine had stripped our house to the bone. 
 And now I, the last of the stock, dwelt with a miserly 
 mother's uncle who did shipwright's work for the 
 foreign captains. The mirror told me that I was fair 
 to look on, though ill-nourished, and my soul assured 
 me that I had no fear. Therefore I had hope, but I 
 ate my heart out waiting on fortune." 
 
 She was looking at the monk with unseeing eyes, her 
 head half turned towards him. 
 
 "Then came Willebald one March morning. I saw 
 him walk up the jetty in a new red cloak, a personable 
 man with a broad beard and a jolly laugh. I knew 
 him by repute as the luckiest of the Flemish venturers. 
 In him I saw my fortune. That night he supped at 
 my uncle's house and a week later he sought me in 
 marriage. My uncle would have bargained, but I had 
 
62 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 become a grown woman and silenced him. With Wille- 
 bald I did not chaffer, for I read his heart and knew 
 that in a little he would be wax to me. So we were 
 wed, and I took to him no dowry but a ring which came 
 to me from my forebears, and a brain that gold does 
 not buy." 
 
 The monkey by her side broke into a chattering. 
 
 "Peace, Peterkin," she said. "You mind me of the 
 babbling of the merchant-folk, when I spurred Wille- 
 bald into new roads. He had done as his father before 
 him, and bought wool and salted fish from the English, 
 paying with the stuffs of our Flemish looms. A good 
 trade of small and sure profits, but I sought bigger 
 quarries. For, mark you, there was much in England 
 that had a value in this country of ours which no 
 Englishman guessed." 
 
 "Of what nature?" the monk asked with curiosity 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Roman things. Once in that land of bogs and 
 forests there were bustling Roman towns and rich 
 Roman houses, which disappeared as every tide 
 brought in new robbers from the sea. Yes, but not all. 
 Much of the preciousness was hidden and the place of 
 its hiding forgotten. Bit by bit the churls found the 
 treasure-trove, but they did not tell their lords. They 
 melted down jewels and sold them piecemeal to Jews 
 for Jews' prices, and what they did not recognise as 
 precious they wantonly destroyed. I have seen the 
 marble heads of heathen gods broken with the hammer 
 to make mortar of, and great cups of onyx and alabas- 
 ter used as water troughs for a thrall's mongrels. 
 . . . Knowing the land, I sent pedlars north and west 
 to collect such stuff, and what I bought for pence I sold 
 for much gold in the Germanies and throughout the 
 French cities. Thus Willebald amassed wealth, till it 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 63 
 
 was no longer worth his while to travel the seas. We 
 lived snug in Flanders, and our servants throughout 
 the broad earth were busy getting us gear." 
 
 The Cluniac was all interest. The making of money 
 lay very near the heart of his Order. "I have heard 
 wondrous tales of your enterprise," he told her. "I 
 would fain know the truth." 
 
 "Packman's tricks," she laughed. "Nevertheless it 
 is a good story. For I turned my eyes to the East, 
 whence come those things that make the pride of life. 
 The merchants of Venice were princes, and it was in 
 my head to make those of Bruges no worse. What 
 did it profit that the wind turned daily the sails of 
 our three hundred mills if we limited ourselves to 
 common burgher wares and the narrow northern mar- 
 kets? We sent emissaries up the Rhine and beyond 
 the Alps to the Venice princes, and brought hither the 
 spices and confections of Egypt and the fruits and 
 wines of Greece, and the woven stuffs of Asia till the 
 marts of Flanders had the savour of Araby. Presently 
 in our booths could be seen silks of Italy, and choice 
 metals from Innsbruck, and furs from Muscovy, and 
 strange birds and beasts from Prester John's country, 
 and at our fairs such a concourse of outlandish traders 
 as put Venice to shame. 'Twas a long fight and a bit- 
 ter for Willebald and me, since, mark you, we had to 
 make a new road over icy mountains, with a horde of 
 freebooters hanging on the skirts of our merchant 
 trains and every little burg on the way jealous to 
 hamper us. Yet if the heart be resolute, barriers will 
 fall. Many times we were on the edge of beggary, 
 and grievous were our losses, but in the end we tri- 
 umphed. There came a day when we had so many 
 bands of the Free Companions in our pay that the prog- 
 ress of our merchandise was like that of a great army. 
 
64 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and from rivals we made the roadside burgs our allies^ 
 sharing modestly in our ventures. Also there were 
 other ways. A pilgrim travels unsuspect, for who dare 
 rob a holy man? and he is free from burgal dues; but 
 if the goods be small and very precious, pilgrims may 
 carry them." 
 
 The monk, as in duty bound, shook a disapproving 
 head. 
 
 "Sin, doubtless," said the woman, "but I have made 
 ample atonement. Did I not buy with a bushel of 
 gold a leg of the blessed St. George for the New Kirk, 
 and give to St. Martin's a diamond as big as a thumb 
 nail and so bright that on a dark day it is a candle to 
 the shrine ? Did not I give to our Lady at Aix a crown 
 of ostrich feathers the marrow of which is not in 
 Christendom?" 
 
 "A mother in Israel, in truth," murmured the cleric. 
 
 "Yea, in Israel," said the old wife with a chuckle. 
 "Israel was the kernel of our perplexities. The good 
 Flemings saw no farther than their noses, and laughed 
 at Willebald when he began his ventures. When 
 success came, it was easy to win them over, and by 
 admitting them to a share in our profits get them to 
 fling their caps in the air and huzza for their benefac- 
 tors. But the Jews were a tougher stock. Mark you, 
 father, when God blinded their eyes to the coming of 
 the Lord Christ, He opened them very wide to all 
 lower matters. Their imagination is quick to kindle, 
 and they are as bold in merchantcraft as Charlemagne 
 in war. They saw what I was after before I had been 
 a month at it, and were quick to profit by my foresight. 
 There are but two ways to deal with Israelites — root 
 them from the face of the earth or make them partners 
 with you. Willebald would have fought them ; I, more 
 wise, bought them at a price. For two score years they 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 65 
 
 have wrought faithfully for me. You say well, a 
 mother in Israel!" 
 
 "I could wish that a Christian lady had no dealings 
 with the accursed race," said the Cluniac. 
 
 "You could wish folly," was the tart answer. "I 
 am not as your burgher folk, and on my own affairs 
 I take no man's guiding, be he monk or merchant. 
 Willebald is long dead; may he sleep in peace. He 
 was no mate for me, but for what he gave me I repaid 
 him in the coin he loved best. He was a proud man 
 when he walked through the Friday Market with every 
 cap doffed. He was ever the burgher, like the child I 
 bore him." 
 
 "I had thought the marriage more fruitful. They 
 spoke of two children, a daughter and a son." 
 
 The woman turned round in her bed so that she 
 faced him. The monkey whimpered and she cuffed 
 its ears. Her face was sharp and exultant, and for 
 a sick person her eyes were oddly bright. 
 
 "The girl was Willebald's. A poor slip of vulgar 
 stock with the spirit of a house cat. I would have 
 married her well, for she was handsome after a fash- 
 ion, but she thwarted me and chose to wed a lout of a 
 huckster in the Bredestreet. She shall have her portion 
 from Willebald's gold, but none from me. But Philip 
 is true child of mine, and sprung on both sides of high 
 race. Nay, I name no names, and before men he is of 
 my husband's getting. But to you at the end of my 
 days I speak the truth. That son of wrath has rare 
 blood in him. Philip . . ." 
 
 The old face had grown kind. She was looking 
 through the monk to some happy country of vision. 
 Her thoughts were retracing the roads of time, and 
 after the way of age she spoke them aloud. Im- 
 periously she had forgotten her company. 
 
66 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "So long ago," came the tender voice. "It is years 
 since they told me he was dead among the heathen, 
 fighting by the Lojrd Baldwin's side. But I can see him 
 as if it were yesterday, when he rode into these streets 
 in spring with April blooms at his saddle-bow. They 
 called him Phoeibus in jest, for his face was like the 
 sun. . . . Willebald, good dull man, was never jeal- 
 ous, and was glad that his wife should be seen in brave 
 company. Ah, the afternoons at the baths when we 
 sported like sea-nymphs and sang merry ballads ! And 
 the proud days of Carnival where men and women con- 
 sorted freely and without guile like the blessed in Para- 
 dise! Such a tide for lovers! . . . Did I not lead 
 the dance with him at the Burgrave's festival, the twain 
 of us braver than morning? Sat I not with him In 
 the garden of St. Vaast, his head in my lap, while he 
 sang me virelays of the south? What was Willebald 
 to me or his lean grey wife to him? He made me 
 his queen, me the burgher wife, at the jousting at 
 Courtral, when the horses squealed like pigs in the 
 mellay and I wept in fear for him. Ah, the lost sweet 
 days! Philip, my darling, you make a brave gentle- 
 man, but you will not equal him who loved your 
 mother." 
 
 The Cluniac was a man of the world whom no con- 
 fidences could scandalise. But he had business of his 
 own to speak of that night, and he thought it wise to 
 break into this mood of reminiscence. 
 
 "The young lord, Philip, your son, madam? You 
 have great plans for him? What does he at the mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 The softness went out of the voice and the woman's 
 gaze came back to the chamber. "That I know not. 
 Travelling the ways of the world and plucking road- 
 side fruits, for he is no home-bred and womanish strip- 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 67 
 
 ling. Wearing his lusty youth on the maids, I fear. 
 Nay, I forget. He is about to wed the girl of 
 Avesnes and is already choosing his bridal train. 
 It seems he loves her. He writes me she has a skin 
 of snow and eyes of vair. I have not seen her. A 
 green girl, doubtless with a white face and cat's eyes. 
 But she is of Avesnes, and that blood comes pure from 
 Clovis, and there is none prouder in Hainault. He 
 will husband her well, but she will be a clever woman 
 if she tethers to her side a man of my bearing. He 
 will be for the high road and the battle-front." 
 
 "A puissant and peaceable knight, I have heard 
 tell," said the Cluniac. 
 
 "Puissant beyond doubt, and peaceable — when his 
 will is served. He will play boldly for great things 
 and will win them. Ah, monk ! What knows a child- 
 less religious of a mother's certainty? 'Twas not for 
 nothing that I found Willebald and changed the cob- 
 bles of King's Lynn for this fat country. It is gold 
 that brings power, and the stiffest royal neck must bend 
 to him who has the deep coffers. It is gold and his 
 high hand that will set my Philip by the side of kings. 
 Lord Jesus, what a fortune I have made for him! 
 There is coined money at the goldsmiths' and in my 
 cellars, and the ships at the ports, and a hundred busy 
 looms, and lands in Hainault and Artois, and fair 
 houses in Bruges and Ghent. Boats on the Rhine and 
 many pack-trains between Antwerp and Venice are his, 
 and a wealth of preciousness lies in his name with the 
 Italian merchants. Likewise there is this dwelling of 
 mine, with plenishing which few kings could buy. My 
 sands sink in the glass, but as I lie a-bed I hear the 
 bustle of wains and horses in the streets, and the talk 
 of shipfolk, and the clatter of my serving men beneath. 
 
68 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and I know that daily, hourly, more riches flow hither 
 to furnish my son's kingdom." 
 
 The monk's eyes sparkled at this vision of wealth, 
 and he remembered his errand. 
 
 "A most noble heritage. But if the Sire God in 
 His inscrutable providence should call your son to His 
 holy side, what provision have you made for so mighty 
 a fortune? Does your daughter then share?" 
 
 The face on the pillows became suddenly wicked 
 and very old. The eyes were lit with hate. 
 
 "Not a bezant of which I have the bequeathing. 
 She has something from Willebald, and her dull hus- 
 band makes a livelihood. 'Twill suffice for the female 
 brats, of whom she has brought three into the world 
 to cumber it. . . . By the Gospels, she will lie on the 
 bed she has made. I did not scheme and toil to make 
 gold for such leaden souls." 
 
 "But if your most worthy son should die ere he has 
 begot children, have you made no disposition?" The 
 monk's voice was pointed with anxiety, for was not 
 certainty on this point the object of his journey? The 
 woman perceived it and laughed maliciously. 
 
 "I have made dispositions. Such a chapel will be 
 builded In the New Kirk as Rome cannot equal. Like- 
 wise there will be benefactions for the poor and a great 
 endowment for the monks at St. Sauveur. If my seed is 
 not to continue on earth I will make favour in Paradise." 
 
 "And we of Cluny, madam?" The voice trembled 
 in spite of Its training. 
 
 "Nay I have not forgotten Cluny. Its Abbot shall 
 have the gold flagons from Jerusalem and some where- 
 withal in money. But what Is this talk? Philip will 
 not die, and like his mother he loves Holy Church and 
 will befriend her in all her works. . . . Listen, father, 
 it is long past the hour when men cease from labour, 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 69 
 
 and yet my provident folk are busy. Hark to the 
 bustle below. That will be the convoy from the Ver- 
 mandois. Jesu, what a night!" 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 Flurries of snow beat on the windows, and draughts 
 stirred the hot ashes in the braziers and sent the smoke 
 from them in odd spirals about the chamber. It had 
 become perishing cold, and the monkey among the bed- 
 clothes whimpered and snuggled closer into his nest. 
 There seemed to be a great stir about the house-door. 
 Loud voices were heard in gusts, and a sound like a 
 woman's cry. The head on the pillow was raised to 
 listen. 
 
 "A murrain on those folk. There has been bun- 
 gling among the pack-riders. That new man Derek 
 is an oaf of oafs." 
 
 She rang her silver bell sharply and waited on the 
 ready footsteps. But none came. There was silence 
 now below, an ominous silence. 
 
 "God's curse upon this household," the woman cried. 
 The monkey whimpered again, and she took It by the 
 scruff and tossed It to the floor. "Peace, ape, or I will 
 have you strangled. Bestir yourself, father, and call 
 Anton. There Is a blight of deafness In this place." 
 
 The room had suddenly lost its comfort and become 
 cold and desolate. The lamps were burning low and 
 the coloured hangings were In deep shadow. The 
 storm was knocking fiercely at the lattice. 
 
 The monk rose with a shiver to do her bidding, but 
 he was forestalled. Steps sounded on the stairs and 
 the steward entered. The woman In the bed had 
 opened her mouth to upbraid, when something in his 
 dim figure struck her silent. 
 
 The old man stumbled forward and fell on his knees 
 beside her. 
 
70 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "Madam, dear madam," he stammered, "ill news 
 has come to this house. . , . There is a post in from 
 Avesnes. . . . The young master ..." 
 
 "Philip," and the woman's voice rose to a scream. 
 "What of my son?" 
 
 "The lord has taken away what He gave. He is 
 dead, slain in a scuffle with highway robbers. . . . 
 Oh, the noble young lord! The fair young knight! 
 Woe upon this stricken house I" 
 
 The woman lay very still, while the old man on his 
 knees drifted into broken prayers. Then he observed 
 her silence, scrambled to his feet in a panic, and lit 
 two candles from the nearest brazier. She lay back 
 on the pillows in a deathly faintness, her face drained 
 of blood. Only her tortured eyes showed that life 
 was still in her. 
 
 Her voice came at last, no louder than a whisper. 
 It was soft now, but more terrible than the old harsh- 
 ness. 
 
 "I follow Philip," it said. "Sic transit gloria. . . . 
 Call me Arnulf the goldsmith and Robert the scrivener. 
 . . . Quick, man, quick. I have much to do ere I die." 
 
 As the steward hurried out, the Cluniac, remem- 
 bering his office, sought to offer comfort, but in his 
 bland worldling's voice the consolations sounded hol- 
 low. She lay motionless, while he quoted the Scrip- 
 tures. Encouraged by her docility, he spoke of the 
 certain reward promised by Heaven to the rich who 
 remembered the Church at their death. He touched 
 upon the high duties of his Order and the handicap 
 of its poverty. He bade her remember her debt to 
 the Abbot of Cluny. 
 
 She seemed about to speak and he bent eagerly to 
 catch her words. 
 
 "Peace, you babbler," she said. "I am done with 
 
THE WIFE OF FLANDERS 71 
 
 your God. When I meet Him I will outface Him. 
 He has broken His compact and betrayed me. My 
 riches go to the Burgrave for the comfort of this city 
 where they were won. Let your broken rush of a 
 Church wither and rot!" 
 
 Scared out of all composure by this blasphemy, the 
 Cluniac fell to crossing himself and mumbling invo- 
 cations. The diplomat had vanished and only the 
 frightened monk remained. He would fain have left 
 the room had he dared, but the spell of her masterful 
 spirit held him. After that she spoke nothing. . . . 
 
 Again there was a noise on the stairs and she moved 
 a little, as if mustering her failing strength for the 
 ultimate business. But it was not Arnulf the gold- 
 smith. It was Anton, and he shook like a man on his 
 way to the gallows. 
 
 "Madam, dear madam," he stammered, again on 
 his knees. '.'There is another message. One has 
 come from the Bredestreet with word of your lady 
 daughter. An hour ago she has borne a child. , . . 
 A lusty son, madam." 
 
 The reply from the bed was laughter. 
 
 It began low and hoarse like a fit of coughing, and 
 rose to the high cackling mirth of extreme age. At 
 the sound both Anton and the monk took to praying. 
 Presently it stopped, and her voice came full and 
 strong as it had been of old. 
 
 "Mea culpa," it said, "mea maxima culpa. I judged 
 the Sire God over hastily. He is merry and has 
 wrought a jest on me. He has kept His celestial 
 promise in His own fashion. He takes my brave 
 Philip and gives me instead a suckling. ... So be it. 
 The infant has my blood, and the race of Forester 
 John will not die. Arnulf will have an easy task. 
 
72 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 He need but set the name of this new-born in Philip's 
 place. What manner of child is he, Anton? Lusty, 
 you' say, and well-formed? I would my arms could 
 have held him. . . . But I must be about my business 
 of dying. I will take the news to Philip." 
 
 Hope had risen again in the Cluniac's breast. It 
 seemed that here was a penitent. He approached the 
 bed with a raised crucifix, and stumbled over the whim- 
 pering monkey. The woman's eyes saw him and a last 
 flicker woke in them. 
 
 "Begone, man," she cried. "I have done with the 
 world. Anton, rid me of both these apes. And fetch 
 the priest of St. Martin's, for I would confess and be 
 shriven. Yon curate is no doubt a fool, but he serves 
 my jesting God." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 EYES OF YOUTH 
 
 t~\ N the morning of Shrove Tuesday, in the year of 
 ^-^ our Lord 1249, Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir, the 
 envoy of the most Christian king, Louis of France, 
 arrived in the port of Acre, having made the voyage 
 from Cyprus with a fair wind in a day and a night in 
 a ship of Genoa flying the red and gold banner of the 
 Temple. Weary of the palms and sun-baked streets 
 of Limasol and the eternal wrangling of the Crusading 
 hosts, he looked with favour at the noble Palestine 
 harbour, and the gilt steeples and carven houses of the 
 fair city. From the quay he rode to the palace of the 
 Templars and was admitted straightway to an audience 
 with the Grand Master. For he had come in a busi- 
 ness of some moment. 
 
 The taste of Cyprus was still in his mouth; the 
 sweet sticky air of the coastlands ; the smell of endless 
 camps of packed humanity, set among mountains of 
 barrels and malodorous sprouting forage-stuffs; the 
 narrow streets lit at night by flares of tarry staves; 
 and over all that rotting yet acrid flavour which is the 
 token of the East. The young damoiseau of Beau- 
 manoir had grown very sick of it all since the royal 
 dromonds first swung into Limasol Bay. He had seen 
 his friends die like flies of strange maladies, while the 
 host waited on Hugh of Burgundy. Egypt was but 
 four days off across the waters, and on its sands Louis 
 had ordained that the War of the Cross should begin. 
 
 73 
 
74 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 . . . But the King seemed strangely supine. Each 
 day the enemy was the better forewarned, and each 
 day the quarrels of Templar and Hospitaller grew 
 more envenomed, and yet he sat patiently twiddling his 
 thumbs, as if all time lay before him and not a man's 
 brief life. And now when at long last the laggards 
 of Burgundy and the Morea were reported on their 
 way. Sir Aimery had to turn his thoughts from the hon- 
 est field of war. Not for him to cry Montjoie St. 
 Denis by the Nile. For behold he was now speeding 
 on a crazy errand to the ends of the earth. 
 
 There had been strange councils in the bare little 
 chamber of the Most Christian King. Those locusts 
 of the dawn whom men called Tartars, the evil seed 
 of the Three Kings who had once travelled to Bethle- 
 hem, had, it seemed, been vouchsafed a glimpse of 
 grace. True, they had plundered and eaten the faithful 
 and shed innocent blood in oceans, but they hated the 
 children of Mahound worse than the children of 
 Christ. On the eve of Christmas-tide four envoys 
 had come from their Khakan, monstrous men with big 
 heads that sprang straight from the shoulder, and 
 arms that hung below the knee, and short thin legs 
 like gnomes. For forty weeks they had been on the 
 road, and they brought gifts such as no eye had seen 
 before — silks like gossamer woven with wild alphabets, 
 sheeny jars of jade, and pearls like moons. Their 
 Khakan, they said, had espoused the grandchild of 
 Prester John, and had been baptized into the Faith. 
 He marched against Bagdad, and had sworn to root 
 the heresy of Mahound from the earth. Let the 
 King of France make a league with him, and between 
 them, pressing from east and west, they would ac- 
 complish the holy task. Let him send teachers to ex- 
 pound the mysteries of God, and let him send knights 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 75 
 
 who would treat on mundane things. The letter, writ- 
 ten in halting Latin and sealed with a device like a 
 spider's web, urged instant warfare with Egypt. 
 "For the present we dwell far apart," wrote the 
 Khakan; "therefore let us both get to business." 
 
 So Aimery had been summoned to the King's cham- 
 ber, where he found his good master, the Count of St. 
 Pol, in attendance with others. After prayer, Louis 
 opened to them his mind. Pale from much fasting 
 and nightly communing with God, his face was lit again 
 with that light which had shone in it when on the 
 Friday after Pentecost the year before he had received 
 at St. Denis the pilgrim's scarf and the oriflamme of 
 France. 
 
 "God's hand is in this, my masters," he said. "Is 
 It not written that many shall come from the east and 
 from the west to sit down with Abraham in his king- 
 dom? I have a duty towards those poor folk, and I 
 dare not fail." 
 
 There was no man present bold enough to argue 
 with the white fire in the King's eyes. One alone 
 cavilled. He was a Scot, Sir Patrick, the Count of 
 Dunbar, who already shook with the fever which was 
 to be his death. 
 
 "This Khakan is far away, sire," he said. "If it 
 took his envoys forty weeks to reach us, it will be a 
 good year before his armies are on the skirts of Egypt. 
 As well make alliance with a star." 
 
 But Louis was in missionary mood. "God's ways 
 are not as our ways. To Him a thousand years are a 
 day, and He can make the weakest confound a multi- 
 tude. This far-away King asks for instruction, and I 
 will send him holy men to fortify his young faith. 
 And this knight, of whom you, my lord of St. Pol, 
 speak well, shall bear the greetings of a soldier." 
 
76 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Louis' face, which for usual was grave like a wise 
 child's, broke into a smile which melted Aimery's 
 heart. He scarcely heard the Count of St. Pol as that 
 stout friend enlarged on his merits. "The knight of 
 Beaumanoir," so ran the testimony, "has more learn- 
 ing than any clerk. In Spain he learned the tongues 
 of the heathen, and in Paris he read deep in their 
 philosophy. Withal he is a devout son of Holy 
 Church." 
 
 The boy blushed at the praise and the King's kindly 
 regard. But St. Pol spoke truth, for Aimery, young 
 as he was, had travelled far both on the material globe 
 and in the kingdom of the spirit. As a stripling he 
 had made one of the Picardy Nation in the schools of 
 Paris. He had studied the metaphysics of Aristotle 
 under Aquinas, and voyaged strange seas of thought 
 piloted by Roger, the white-bearded Englishman. 
 Thence, by the favour of the Queen-mother, he had 
 gone as squire to Alphonso's court of Castile, where 
 the Spanish doctors had opened windows, for him into 
 the clear dry wisdom of the Saracens. He had trav- 
 elled with an embassy to the Emperor, and in Sicily 
 had talked with the learned Arabs who clustered 
 around the fantastic Frederick. In Italy he had met 
 adventurers of Genoa and Venice who had shown him 
 charts of unknown oceans and maps of Prester John's 
 country and the desert roads that led to Cambaluc, 
 that city farther than the moon, and told him tales 
 of awful and delectable things hidden beyond the 
 dawn. He had returned to his tower by the springs 
 of Canche, a young man with a name for uncanny 
 knowledge, a searcher after concealed matters, negli- 
 gent of religion and ill at ease in his world. 
 
 Then Louis cast his spell over him. He saw the 
 King first at a great hunting in Avesnes and worshipped 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 77 
 
 from afar the slight body, royal in every line of it, 
 and the blue eyes which charmed and compelled, for 
 he divined there a spirit which had the secret of both 
 earth and heaven. While still under the glamour he 
 was given knighthood at the royal hands, and presently 
 was weaned from unwholesome fancies by falling in 
 love. The girl, Alix of Valery, was slim like a poplar 
 and her eyes were grey and deep as her northern 
 waters. She had been a maid of Blanche the Queen, 
 and had a nun's devoutness joined to a merry soul. 
 Under her guiding Aimery made his peace with the 
 Church, and became notable for his gifts to God, for 
 he derived great wealth from his Flemish forbears. 
 Yet the yeast of youth still wrought in him, and by 
 Alix's side at night he dreamed of other lands than his 
 grey-green Picardy. So, when the King took the croix 
 d'outre mer and summoned his knights to the freeing 
 of Jerusalem, Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir was the first 
 to follow. For to him, as to others like him, the goal 
 was no perishable city made by mortal hands, but that 
 beata urbs without foundations which youth builds of 
 its dreams. 
 
 He heard mass by the King's side and, trembling 
 with pride, kissed the royal hands and set out on his 
 journey. His last memory of Louis was of a boyish 
 figure in a surcoat of blue samite, gazing tenderly on 
 him as if bidding farewell to a brother. 
 
 The Grand Master of the Templars, sitting in a 
 furred robe in a warm upper chamber, for he had an 
 ague on him, spoke gloomily of the mission. He 
 would have preferred to make alliance with the Soldan 
 of Egypt, and by his aid recover the Holy Cities. 
 "What Khakan is this?" he cried, "to whom it is a 
 journey of a lifetime to come nigh? What kind of 
 Christian will you make of men that have blood for 
 
78 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 drink and the flesh of babes for food, and blow hither 
 and thither on horses like sandstorms? Yours is a 
 mad venture, young sir, and I see no good that can 
 come of it." Nevertheless he wrote letters of com- 
 mendation to the Prince of Antioch and the Constable 
 of Armenia; and he brought together all those about 
 the place who had travelled far inland to make a chart 
 of the journey. 
 
 Aimery heeded little the Templar's forebodings, for 
 his heart had grown high again and romance was 
 kindling his fancy. There was a knuckle of caution 
 in him, for he had the blood of Flemish traders in his 
 veins, though enriched by many nobler streams. "The 
 profit is certain," a cynic had whispered to him ere they 
 left Aigues Mortes. "Should we conquer we shall 
 grow rich, and if we fail we shall go to heaven." The 
 phrase had fitted some of his moods, notably the black 
 ones at Limasol, but now he was all aflame with the 
 quixotry of the Crusader. He neither needed nor 
 sought wealth, nor was he concerned about death. 
 His feet trod the sacred soil of his faith, and up in the 
 hills which rimmed the seaward plain lay all the holi- 
 ness of Galilee and Nazareth, the three tabernacles 
 built by St. Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration, 
 the stone whence Christ ascended into heaven, the hut 
 at Bethlehem which had been the Most High's cradle, 
 the sanctuary of Jerusalem whose every stone was 
 precious. Presently his King would win it all back 
 for God. But for him was the sterner task — no clean 
 blows in the mellay among brethren, but a lone pil- 
 grimage beyond the east wind to the cradle of all 
 marvels. The King had told him that he carried the 
 hopes of Christendom in bis wallet; he knew that he 
 bore within himself the delirious expectation of a boy. 
 Youth swelled his breast and steeled his sinews and 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 79 
 
 made a golden mist for his eyes. The new, the out- 
 landish, the undreamed-of I — Surely no one of the 
 Seven Champions had had such fortune I Scribes long 
 after would write of the deeds of Aimery of Beau- 
 manoir, and minstrels would sing of him as they sang 
 of Roland and Tristan. 
 
 The Count of Jaffa, whose tower stood on the bor- 
 ders and who was therefore rarely quit of strife, con- 
 voyed him a stage or two on his way. It was a slender 
 company : two Franciscans bearing the present of Louis 
 to the Khakan — a chapel-tent of scarlet cloth embroid- 
 ered inside with pictures of the Annunciation and the 
 Passion; two sumpter mules with baggage; Aimery's 
 squire, a lad from the Boulonnais; and Aimery him- 
 self mounted on a Barbary horse warranted to go far 
 on little fodder. The lord of Jaffa turned back when 
 the snows of Lebanon were falling behind on their 
 right. He had nodded towards the mountains. 
 
 "There lives the Old Man and his Ishmaelites. 
 Fear nothing, for his fangs are drawn." And when 
 Aimery asked the cause of the impotence of the 
 renowned Assassins, he was told — "That Khakan 
 whom ye seek." 
 
 After that they made good speed to the city of 
 Antioch, where not so long before angels from heaven 
 had appeared as knights in white armour to do battle 
 for the forlorn Crusaders. There they were welcomed 
 by the Prince and sent forward into Armenia, guided 
 by the posts of the Constable of that harassed king- 
 dom. Everywhere the fame of the Tartars had gone 
 abroad, and with each mile they journeyed the tales 
 became stranger. Conquerers and warriors beyond 
 doubt, but grotesque paladins for the Cross. Men 
 whispered their name with averted faces, and in the 
 eyes of the travelled ones there was the terror of sights 
 
8o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 remembered outside the mortal pale. Aimery's heart 
 was stout, but he brooded much as the road climbed 
 into the mountains. Far off in Cyprus the Khakan 
 had seemed a humble devotee at Christ's footstool, 
 asking only to serve and learn; but now he had grown 
 to some monstrous Cyclops beyond the stature of man, 
 a portent like a thundercloud brooding over unnum- 
 bered miles. Besides, the young lord was homesickT' 
 and had long thoughts of Alix his wife and the son 
 she had borne him. As he looked at the stony hills 
 he remembered that it would now be springtide in 
 Picardy, when the young green of the willows fringed 
 every watercourse and the plovers were calling on the 
 windy downs. 
 
 The Constable of Armenia dwelt in a castle of hewn 
 stone about which a little city clustered, with moun- 
 tains on every side to darken the sky. He was as 
 swarthy as a Saracen and had a long nose like a Jew, 
 but he was a good Christian and a wise ruler, though 
 commonly at odds with his cousin of Antioch. From 
 him Aimery had more precise news of the Khakan. 
 
 There were two, said the Constable. "One who 
 rules all Western Asia east of the Sultan's principates. 
 Him they call the Ilkhan for title, and Houlagou for 
 name. His armies have eaten up the Chorasmlans 
 and the Muscovites and will presently bite their way 
 into Christendom, unless God change their heart. By 
 the Gospels, they are less and more than men. Swin- 
 ish drinkers and gluttons, they rise from their orgies 
 to sweep the earth like a flame. Here inside our pali- 
 sade of rock we wait fearfully." 
 
 "And the other?" Aimery asked. 
 
 "Ah, he is as much the greater as the sun is greater 
 than a star. Kublai they name him, and he is in some 
 sort the lord of Houlagou. I have never met the man 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 81 
 
 who has seen him, for he dwells as far beyond the 
 Ilkhan as the Ilkhan is far from the Pillars of Her- 
 cules. But rumour has it that he is a clement and 
 beneficent prince, terrible in battle, but a lover of peace 
 and all good men. They tell wonders about his land 
 of Cathay, where strips of parchment stamped with 
 the King's name take the place of gold among the mer- 
 chants, so strong is that King's honour. But the jour- 
 ney to Cambaluc, the city of Kublai, would fill a man's 
 hfetime." 
 
 One April morning they heard mass after the odd 
 Syrian fashion, and turned their faces eastward. The 
 Constable's guides led them through the mountains, 
 up long sword-cuts of valleys and under frowning snow- 
 drifts, or across stony barrens where wretched bee- 
 hive huts huddled by the shores of unquiet lakes. 
 Presently they came into summer, and found meadows 
 of young grass and green forests on the hills' skirts, 
 and saw wide plains die into the blueness of morning. 
 There the guides left them, and the little cavalcade 
 moved east into unknown anarchies. 
 
 The sky grew like brass over their heads, and the 
 land baked and rutted with the sun's heat. It seemed 
 a country empty of man, though sometimes they came 
 on derelict ploughlands and towns of crumbling brick 
 charred and glazed by fire. In sweltering days they 
 struggled through flats where the grass was often 
 higher than a horse's withers, and forded the tawny 
 streams which brought down the snows of the hills. 
 Now and then they would pass wandering herdsmen, 
 who fled to some earth-burrow at their appearance. 
 The Constable had bidden them make for the rising 
 suri, saying that sooner or later they would foregather 
 with the Khakan's scouts. But days passed into weeks 
 and weeks into months, and still they moved through a 
 
82 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 tenantless waste. They husbanded jealously the food 
 they had brought, but the store ran low, and there 
 were days of empty stomachs and light heads. Un- 
 less, like the King of Babylon, they were to eat grass 
 in the fashion of beasts, it seemed they must soon 
 famish. 
 
 But late in summertime they saw before them a wall 
 of mountain, and in three days climbed by its defiles 
 to a pleasant land, where once more they found the 
 dwellings of man. It appeared that they were in a 
 country where the Tartars had been for some time 
 settled and which had for years been free of the rav- 
 ages of war. The folks were hunters and shepherds 
 who took the strangers for immortal beings and offered 
 food on bent knees like oblations to a god. They 
 knew where the Ilkhan dwelt, and furnished guides for 
 each day's journey. Aimery, who had been sick of 
 a low fever in the plains, and had stumbled on in a 
 stupor torn by flashes of homesickness, found his spir- 
 its reviving. He had cursed many times the futility 
 of his errand. While the Franciscans were busied 
 with their punctual offices and asked nothing of each 
 fresh day but that it should be as prayerful as the last, 
 he found a rebellious unbelief rising in his heart. He 
 was travelling roads no Christian had ever trod, on 
 a wild-goose errand, while his comrades were winning 
 fame in the battle-front. Alas ! that a bright sword 
 should rust in these barrens I 
 
 But with the uplands peace crept into his soul and 
 some of the mystery of his journey. It was a brave 
 venture, whether it failed or no, for he had already 
 gone beyond the pale even of men's dreams. The 
 face of Louis hovered before him. It needed a great 
 king even to conceive such a mission. . . . He had 
 been sent on a king's errand too. He stood alone for 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 83 
 
 France and the Cross in a dark world. Alone, as 
 kings should stand, for to take all the burden was 
 the mark of kingship. His heart bounded at the 
 thought, for he was young. His father had told him 
 of that old Flanders grandam, who had sworn that 
 his blood came from proud kings. 
 
 But chiefly he thought of Louis with a fresh warmth 
 of love. Surely the King loved him, or he would not 
 have chosen him out of many for this fateful work. 
 He had asked of him the ultimate service, as a friend 
 should. Aimery reconstructed in his inner vision all 
 his memories of the King: the close fair hair now thin- 
 ning about the temples; the small face still con- 
 toured like a boy's; the figure strung like a bow; the 
 quick, eager gestures; the blue dove's eyes, kindly and 
 humble, as became one whose proudest title was to be 
 a "sergeant of the Crucified." But those 'same eyes 
 could also steel and blaze, for his father had been 
 called the Lion, his mother Semiramis, and his grand- 
 sire Augustus. In these wilds Aimery, was his vicege- 
 rent and bore himself proudly as the proxy of such a 
 monarch. 
 
 The hour came when they met the Tartar outposts. 
 A cloud of horse swept down on them, each man rid- 
 ing loose with his hand on a taut bowstring. In silence 
 they surrounded the little party, and their leader made 
 signs to Aimery to dismount. The Constable had 
 procured for him a letter in Tartar script, setting out 
 the purpose of his mission. This the outpost could 
 not read, but they recognised some word among the 
 characters, and pointed it out to each other with un- 
 couth murmurings. They were strange folk, with 
 eyes like pebbles and squat frames and short, broad 
 faces, but each horse and man moved in unison like 
 a centaur. 
 
84 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 With gestures of respect the Tartars signalled to 
 the Christians to follow, and led them for a day and 
 a night southward down a broad valley, where vines 
 and fruit trees grew and peace dwelt in villages. 
 They passed encampments of riders like themselves, 
 and little scurries of horsemen would ride athwart 
 their road and exchange greetings. On the second 
 morning they reached a city, populous in men but 
 not in houses. For miles stretched lines of skin tents, 
 and in the heart of them by the river's edge stood a 
 great hall of brick, still raw from the builders. 
 
 Aimery sat erect on his weary horse with the hum 
 of an outlandish host about him, himself very weary 
 and very sick at heart. For the utter folly of it all 
 had come on him like the waking from a dream. 
 These men were no allies of the West. They were 
 children of the Blue Wolf, as the Constable had said, 
 a monstrous brood, swarming from the unknown to 
 blight the gardens of the world. A Saracen compared 
 to such was a courteous knight. . . . He thought of 
 Kublai, the greater Khakan. Perhaps in his court 
 might dwell gentlehood and reason. But here was but 
 a wolf pack in the far-away guise of man. 
 
 They gave the strangers food and drink — ^half- 
 cooked fish and a porridge of rye and sour spiced milk, 
 and left them to sleep until sundown. Then the palace 
 guards led them to the presence. 
 
 The hall was immense, dim and shapeless like the 
 inside of a hill, not built according to the proportions 
 of mankind. Flambeaux and wicks floating in great 
 basins of mutton fat showed a dense concourse of 
 warriors, and through an aisle of them Aimery ap- 
 proached the throne. In front stood a tree of silver, 
 springing from a pedestal of four lions whose mouths 
 poured streams of wine, syrup, and mead into basins, 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 85 
 
 which were emptied by a host of slaves, the cup-bearers 
 of the assembly. There were two thrones side by 
 side, on one of which sat a figure so motionless that it 
 might have been wrought of jasper. Weighted with 
 a massive head-dress of pearls and a robe of gold bro- 
 cade, the little grandchild of Prester John seemed 
 like a doll on which some princess had lavished wealth 
 and fancy. The black eyelashes lay quiet on her olive 
 cheeks, and her breathing did not stir her stiff, jewelled 
 bodice. 
 
 "I have seen death in life," thought Aimery as he 
 shivered and looked aside. 
 
 Houlagou, her husband, was a tall man compared 
 with the others. His face was hairless, and his mouth 
 fine and cruel. His eyes were hard like agates, with 
 no light in them. A passionless power lurked in the 
 low broad forehead, and the mighty head sunk deep 
 between the shoulders; but the power not of a man, 
 but of some abortion of nature, like storm or earth- 
 quake. Again Aimery shivered. Had not the proph- 
 ets foretold that one day Antichrist would be reborn 
 in Babylon? 
 
 Among the Ilkhan's scribes was a Greek who spoke 
 a bastard French and acted as interpreter. King 
 Louis' letter was read, and in that hall its devout 
 phrases seemed a mockery. The royal gifts were pro- 
 duced, the tent-chapel with Its woven pictures and the 
 sacred utensils. The half-drunk captains fingered 
 them curiously, but the eyes from the throne scarcely 
 regarded them. 
 
 "These are your priests," said the Khakan. "Let 
 them talk with my priests and then go their own way. 
 I have little concern with priestcraft." 
 
 Then Aimery spoke, and the Greek with many bait- 
 ings translated. He reminded Houlagou of the Tar- 
 
86 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 tar envoys who had sought from his King instruction 
 in the Christian faith and had proclaimed his baptism. 
 
 "Of that I know nothing," was the answer. "May- 
 be 'twas some whim of my brother Kublai. I have 
 all the gods I need." 
 
 With a heavy heart Aimery touched on the pro- 
 posed alliance, the advance on Bagdad, and the pin- 
 ning of the Saracens between two fires. He spoke as 
 he had been ordered, but with a bitter sense of futility, 
 for what kind of ally could be looked for in this 
 proud pagan? 
 
 The impassive face showed no flicker of Interest. 
 
 "I am eating up -the Caliphs," he said, "but that 
 food is for my own table. As for allies, I have need 
 of none. The children of the Blue Wolf do not make 
 treaties." 
 
 Then he spoke aside to his captains, and fixed 
 Aimery with his agate eyes. It was like listening to 
 a voice from a stone. 
 
 "The King of France has sent you to ask for peace. 
 Peace, no doubt, is good, and I will grant it of my 
 favour. A tribute will be fixed in gold and silver, and 
 while it is duly paid your King's lands will be safe from 
 my warriors. Should the tribute fail, France will be 
 ours. I have heard that it is a pleasant place." 
 
 The Ilkhan signed that the audience was over. The 
 fountains of liquor ceased to play, and the drunken 
 gathering stood up with a howling like wild beasts to 
 acclaim their King. Aimery went back to his hut, and 
 sat deep in thought far into the night. 
 
 He perceived that the shadows were closing in upon 
 him. He must get the friars away, and with them a 
 message to his master. For himself there could be 
 no return, for he could not shame his King who had 
 trusted him. In the bestial twilight of this barbaric 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 87 
 
 court the memory of Louis shone like a star. He must 
 attempt to reach Kublai, of whom men spoke well, 
 though the journey cost him his youth and his life. 
 It might mean years of wandering, but there was a 
 spark of hope in it. There, in the bleak hut, he suf- 
 fered the extreme of mental anguisih. A heavy door 
 seemed to have closed between him and all that he 
 held dear. He fell on his knees and prayed to the 
 saints to support his loneliness. And then he found 
 comfort, for had not God's Son suffered even as he, 
 and left the bright streets of Paradise for loneliness 
 among the lost? 
 
 Next morning he faced the world with a clearer eye. 
 It was not difficult to provide for the Franciscans. 
 They, honest men, understood nothing save that the 
 Tartar king had not the love of holy things for which 
 they had hoped. They explained the offices of the 
 Church as well as they could to ribald and uncompre- 
 hending auditors, and continued placidly in their de- 
 votions. As it chanced, a convoy was about to start 
 for Muscovy, whence by ship they might come to Con- 
 stantinople. The Tartars made no objection to their 
 journey, for they had some awe of these pale men and 
 were glad to be quit of foreign priestcraft. With 
 them Aimery sent a letter in which he told the King 
 that the immediate errand had been done, but that no 
 good could be looked for from this western Khakan. 
 "I go," he said, "to Kublai the Great, in Cathay, who 
 has a heart more open to God. If I return not, know. 
 Sire, that I am dead in your most loving service, joy- 
 fully and pridefuUy as a Christian knight dies for the 
 Cross, his King, and his lady." He added some pray- 
 ers on behalf of the little household at Beaumanoir 
 and sealed it with his ring. It was the ring he had 
 
88 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 got from his father, a thick gold thing in which had 
 been cut his cognisance of three lions' heads. 
 
 This done, he sought an audience with the Ilkhan, 
 and told him of his purpose, Houlagou did not speak 
 for a little, and into his set face seemed to creep an 
 ill-boding shadow of a smile. "Who am I," he said 
 at length, "to hinder your going to my brother Kublai ? 
 I will give you an escort to my eastern borders." 
 
 Aimery bent his knee and thanked him, but from the 
 courtiers rose a hubbub of mirth which chilled his grati- 
 tude. He was aware that he sailed on very desperate 
 waters. 
 
 Among the Tartars was a recreant Genoese who 
 taught them metal work and had once lived at the court 
 of Cambaluc. The man had glimmerings of honesty, 
 and tried hard to dissuade Aimery from the journey. 
 "It is a matter of years," he told him, "and the road 
 leads through deserts greater than all Europe and over 
 mountains so high and icy that birds are frozen in the 
 crossing. And a word in your ear, my lord. The 
 Ilkhan permits few to cross his eastern marches. Be- 
 ware of treason, I say. Your companions are the 
 blood-thirstiest of the royal guards." 
 
 But from the Genoese he obtained a plan of the first 
 stages of the road, and one morning in autumn he set 
 out from the Tartar city, his squire from the Boulon- 
 nais by his side, and at his back a wild motley of horse- 
 men, wearing cuirasses of red leather stamped with 
 the blue wolf of Houlagou's house. 
 
 October fell chill and early in those uplands, and on 
 the fourth day they came into a sprinkling of snow. 
 At night round the fires the Tartars made merry, for 
 they had strong drink in many skin bottles, and Aimery 
 was left to his own cold meditations. If he had had 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 89 
 
 any hope, it was gone now, for the escort made it 
 clear that he was their prisoner. Judging from the 
 chart of the Genoese, they were not following any 
 road to Cambaluc, and the sight of the sky told him 
 that they were circling round to the south. The few 
 Tartar words he had learned were not enough to com- 
 munic^e with them, and in any case it was clear that 
 they would take no orders from him. He was trapped 
 like a bird in the fowler's hands. Escape was folly, 
 for in an hour their swift horses would have ridden 
 him down. He had thought he had grown old, l)ut 
 the indignity woke his youth again, and he fretted 
 passionately. If death was his portion, he longed for 
 it to come cleanly in soldier fashion. 
 
 One night his squire disappeared. The Tartars, 
 when he tried to question them, only laughed and 
 pointed westward. That was the last he heard of the 
 lad from the Boulonnais. 
 
 And then on a frosty dawn, when the sun rose red- 
 rimmed over the barrens, he noted a new trimness in 
 his escort. They rode in line, and they rode before 
 and behind him, so that his captivity was made patent. 
 On a ridge far to the west he saw a great castle, and 
 he knew the palace of Houlagou. His guess had been 
 right; he had been brought back by a circuit to his 
 starting-point. 
 
 Presently he was face to face with the Ilkhan, who 
 was hunting. The Greek scribe was with him, so the 
 meeting had been foreseen. The King's face was dark 
 with the weather and his stony eyes had a glow in 
 them. 
 
 "O messenger of France," he said, "there is a little 
 custom of our people that I had forgotten. When a 
 stranger warrior visits us it is our fashion to pit him 
 in a bout against one of our own folk, so that if he 
 
90 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 leaves us alive he may speak well of his entertain- 
 
 ment." 
 
 "I am willing," said Aimery. "I have but my 
 sword for weapon." 
 
 "We have no lack of swordsmen," said the Ilkhan. 
 "I would fain see the Frankish way of it." 
 
 A man stepped out from the ring, a great 'square 
 fellow shorter by a head than Aimery, and with a nose 
 that showed there was Saracen blood in him. He had 
 a heavy German blade, better suited for fighting on 
 horseback than on foot. He had no buckler, and no 
 armour save a headpiece, so the combatants were fairly 
 matched. 
 
 It was a contest of speed and deftness against a 
 giant's strength, for a blow from the great weapon 
 would have cut deep into a man's vitals. Aimery was 
 weary and unpractised, but the clash of steel gave life 
 to him. He found that he had a formidable foe, but 
 one who lacked the finer arts of the swordsman. The . 
 Tartar wasted his strength in the air against the new 
 French parries and guards, though he drew first blood 
 and gashed his opponent's left arm. Aimery's light 
 blade dazzled his eyes, and presently when breath had 
 grown short claimed its due. A deft cut on the shoul- 
 der paralysed the Tartar's sword arm, and a breast- 
 stroke brought him to his knees. 
 
 "Finish him," said the Ilkhan. 
 
 "Nay, sire," said Aimery, "it is not our custom to 
 slay a disabled foe." 
 
 Houlagou nodded to one of his guards, who ad- 
 vanced swinging his sword. The defeated man seemed 
 to know his fate, and stretched out his neck. With a 
 single blow his head rolled on the earth. 
 
 "You have some skill of the sword. Frenchman," 
 said the Ilkhan. "Hear, now, what! have decreed 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 91 
 
 concerning you. I will have none of this journey to 
 iVy brother Kublai. I had purposed to slay you, for 
 yOu have defied my majesty. You sought to travel to 
 Cathay instead of bearing my commands forthwith to 
 your little King. But I am loath to kill so stout a 
 warrior. Swear to me allegiance, and you shall ride 
 with me against the Caliphs." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" Aimery asked. 
 
 "Then you die ere sundown." 
 
 "I am an envoy, sire, from a brother majesty, and 
 of such it is the custom to respect the persons." 
 
 "Tush!" said the Ilkhan, "there is no brother 
 majesty save Kublai. Between us we rule the world." 
 
 "Hear me, then," said Aimery. The duel had 
 swept all cobwebs from his brain and doubts from his 
 heart. "I am a knight of the Sire Christ and of the 
 most noble King Louis, and I can own no other lord. 
 Do your work. King. I am solitary among your 
 tnyriads, but you cannot bend me." 
 
 "So be it," said Houlagou. 
 
 "I ask two boons as one about to die. Let me fall 
 in battle against your warriors. And let me spend the 
 hours till sundown alone, for I would prepare myself 
 for my journey." 
 
 "So be it," said Houlagou, and turned to his hounds. 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 The damoiseau of Beaumanoir sat on a ridge com- 
 manding for fifty miles the snow-sprinkled uplands. 
 The hum of the Tartars came faint from a hollow to 
 the west, but where he sat he was in quiet and alone. 
 
 He had forgotten the ache of loss which had preyed 
 on him. . . . His youth had not been squandered. 
 The joy of young manhood which had been always 
 like a tune in his heart had risen to a nobler song. 
 For now, as it seemed to him, he stood beside his King, 
 
92 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and had found a throne in the desert. Alone among 
 all Christian men he had carried the Cross to a new 
 world, and had been judged worthy to walk in the 
 footprints of his captain Christ. A great gladness 
 and a great humility possessed him. 
 
 He had ridden beyond the ken of his own folk, and 
 no tale of his end would ever be told in that northern 
 hall of his when the hearth-fire flickered on the rafters. 
 That seemed small loss, for they would know that 
 he had ridden the King's path, and that can have but 
 the one ending. . . . Most clear in his memory now 
 were the grey towers by Canche, where all day long the 
 slow river made a singing among the reeds. He saw 
 Alix his wife, the sun on her hair, playing in the close 
 with his little Philip. Even now in the pleasant au- 
 tumn weather that curly-pate would be scrambling in 
 the orchard for the ripe apples which his mother rolled 
 to him. He had thought himself born for a high 
 destiny. Well, that destiny had been accomplished. 
 He would not die, but live in the son of his body, and 
 his sacrifice would be eternally a spirit moving in the 
 hearts of his seed. He saw the thing clear and sharp, 
 as if in a magic glass. There was a long road before 
 the house of Beaumanoir, and on the extreme horizon 
 a great brightness. 
 
 Now he remembered that he had always known it, 
 known it even when his head had been busy with ardent 
 hopes. He had loved life and had won life everlast- 
 ing. He had known It when he sought learning from 
 wise books. When he kept watch by his armour in 
 the Abbey church of Corbie and questioned wistfully 
 the darkness, that was the answer he had got. In the 
 morning, when he had knelt in snow-white linen and 
 crimson and steel before the high altar and received 
 back his sword from God, the message had been whis- 
 
EYES OF YOUTH 93 
 
 pered to his heart. In the June dawn when, barefoot, 
 he was given the pilgrim's staff and entered on his 
 southern journey, he had had a premonition of his 
 goal. But now what had been dim, like a shadow in a 
 mirror, was as clear as the colours in a painted psal- 
 tery. "Jerusalem, Jerusalem," he sighed, as his King 
 was wont to sigh. For he was crossing the ramparts 
 of the secret city. 
 
 He tried to take the ring from his finger that he 
 might bury it, for it irked him that his father's jewel 
 should fall to his enemies. But the wound had swollen 
 his left hand, and he could not move the ring. 
 
 He was looking westward, for that way lay the Holy 
 Places, and likewise Alix and Picardy. His minutes 
 were few now, for he heard the bridles of the guards, 
 as they closed in to carry him to his last fight. . . . 
 He had with him a fragment of rye-cake and beside 
 him on the ridge was a little spring. In his helmet 
 he filled a draught, and ate a morsel. For, by the 
 grace of the Church to the knight in extremity, he was 
 now sealed of the priesthood, and partook of the mys- 
 tic body and blood of his Lord. . . , 
 
 Somewhere far off there was a grass fire licking the 
 hills, and the sun was setting in fierce scarlet and gold. 
 The hollow of the sky seemed a vast chapel ablaze 
 with lights, like the lifting of the Host at Candlemas. 
 
 The tale is not finished. For, as it chanced, one 
 Maffeo of Venice, a merchant who had strayed to the 
 court of Cambaluc and found favour there, was sent 
 by Kublai the next year on a mission to Europe, and 
 his way lay through the camp of Houlagou. He was 
 received with honour, and shown the riches of the Tar- 
 tar armies. Among other things he heard of a Frank- 
 ish knight who had fallen in battle with Houlagou's 
 
94 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 champions, and won much honour, they said, having 
 slain three. He was shown the shrivelled arm of this 
 knight, with a gold ring on the third finger. Maffeo 
 was a man of sentiment, and begged for and was given 
 the poor fragment, meaning to accord it burial in con- 
 secrated ground when he should arrive in Europe. 
 He travelled to Bussorah, whence he came by sea to 
 Venice. Now at Venice there presently arrived the 
 Count of St. Pol with, a company of Frenchmen, bound 
 on a mission to the Emperor. Maffeo, of whom one 
 may still read in the book of Messer Marco Polo, was 
 become a famous man in the city, and strangers re- 
 sorted to his house to hear his tales and see his treas- 
 ures. From him St. Pol learned of the dead knight, 
 and, reading the cognisance on the ring, knew the fate 
 . of his friend. On his return journey he bore the relic 
 to Louis at Paris, who venerated it as the limb of a 
 saint; and thereafter took it to Beaumanoir, where the 
 Lady Alix kissed it with proud tears. The arm in a 
 rich casket she buried below the chapel altar, and the 
 ring she wore till her death. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE MAID 
 
 THE hostel of the Ane Raye poured from Its upper 
 and lower windows a flood of light into the gath- 
 ering August dusk. It stood, a little withdrawn 
 among its beeches, at a cross-roads, where the main 
 route southward from the Valois cut the highway from 
 Paris to Rheims and Champagne. The roads at that 
 hour made ghostly white ribbons, and the fore-court 
 of dusty grasses seemed of a verdure which daylight 
 would disprove. Weary horses nuzzled at a water- 
 trough, and serving-men in a dozen liveries made a 
 bustle around the stables, which formed two sides of 
 the open quadrangle. At the foot of the inn signpost 
 beggars squatted — here a leper whining monotonously, 
 there lustier vagrants dicing for supper. At the main 
 door a knot of young squires stood talking in whispers 
 — impatient, if one judged from the restless clank of 
 metal, but on duty, as appeared when a new-comer 
 sought entrance and was brusquely denied. For in 
 an upper room there was business of great folk, and the 
 commonalty must keep its distance. 
 
 That upper room was long and low-ceiled, with a 
 canopied bed in a corner and an oaken table heaped 
 with saddle-bags. A woman sat in a chair by the 
 empty hearth, very bright and clear in the glow of the 
 big iron lantern hung above the chimney. She was a 
 tall girl, exquisitely dressed, from the fine silk of her 
 horned cap to the amethyst buckles on her Spanish 
 
 95 
 
96 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 shoes. The saddle-bags showed that she was fresh 
 from a journey, but her tirewoman's hands must have 
 been busy, for she bore no marks of the road. 
 
 Her chin was in her hands, and the face defined 
 by the slim fingers was small and delicate, pale with 
 the clear pallor of perfect health, and now slowly flush- 
 ing to some emotion. The little chin was firm, but 
 the mouth was pettish. Her teeth bit on a gold chain, 
 which encircled her neck and held a crystal reliquary. 
 A spoiled pretty child, she looked, and in a mighty ill 
 temper. 
 
 The cause of it was a young man who stood dis- 
 . consolately by a settle a little way out of the lantern's 
 glow. The dust of the white roads lay on his body- 
 armour and coated the scabbard of his great sword. 
 He played nervously with the plume of a helmet which 
 lay on the settle, and lifted his face now and then to 
 protest a word. It was an honest face, ruddy with 
 wind and sun and thatched with hair which his mis- 
 likers called red but his friends golden. 
 
 The girl seemed to have had her say. She turned 
 wearily aside, and drew the chain between her young 
 lips with a gesture of despair. 
 
 "Since when have you become Burgundian, Cather- 
 ine?" the young man asked timidly. The Sieur Guy 
 de Laval was most notable in the field but he had few 
 arts for a lady's chamber. 
 
 "I am no Burgundian," she said, "but neither am I 
 Armagnac. What concern have we in these quarrels? 
 Let the Kings who seek thrones do the fighting. 
 What matters it to us whether knock-kneed Charles 
 or fat Philip reign in Paris?" 
 
 The young man shuddered as if at a blasphemy. 
 "This is our country of France. I would rid it of the 
 English and all foreign bloodsuckers." 
 
THE MAID 97 
 
 "And your way is to foment the quarrel among 
 Frenchmen? You are a fool, Guy. Make peace 
 with Burgundy and in a month there will be no God- 
 dams left in France." 
 
 "It is the voice of La Tremouille." 
 
 "It is the voice of myself, Catherine of Beaumanoir. 
 And if my kinsman of La Tremouille say the same, 
 the opinion is none the worse for that. You meddle 
 with matters beyond your understanding. . . . Blit 
 have done with statecraft, for that is not the heart 
 of my complaint. You have broken your pledged 
 word, sir. Did you not promise me when you set out 
 that you would abide the issue of the Bourbon's battle 
 before you took arms? Yet I have heard of you 
 swashbuckling in that very fight at Rouvray, and only 
 the miracle of God brought you out with an unbroken 
 neck." 
 
 "The Bourbon never fought," said de Laval sul- 
 lenly. "Only Stewart and his Scots stood up against 
 Fastolf's spears. You would not have me stay idle 
 in face of such odds. I was not the only French 
 knight who charged. There was La Hire and de 
 Saintrailles and the Bastard himself." 
 
 "Yet you broke your word," was the girl's cold 
 answer. "Your word to me. You are forsworn, sir." 
 
 The boy's face flushed deeply. "You do not under- 
 stand, my sweet Catherine. There have been mighty 
 doings in Touraine, which you have not heard of in 
 Picardy. Miracles have come to pass. Orleans has 
 been saved, and there is now a great army behind 
 Charles. In a little while we shall drive the English 
 from Paris, and presently into the sea. There is hope 
 now and a clear road for us Frenchmen. We have 
 heard the terrible English 'Hurra' grow feeble, and 'St. 
 
98 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Denis' swell like a wind in heaven. For God has sent 
 us the Maid. . . ." 
 
 The girl had risen and was walking with quick, short 
 steps from hearth to Qpen window. 
 
 "Tell me of this maid," she commanded. 
 
 "Beyond doubt she is a daughter of God," said de 
 Laval. 
 
 "Beyond doubt. But I would hear more of her." 
 
 Her tone was ominously soft, and the young man 
 was deceived by it. He launched into a fervid 
 panegyric of Jeanne of Arc. He told of her doings 
 at Orleans, when her standard became the oriflamme 
 of France, and her voice was more stirring than trum- 
 pets; of her gentleness and her wisdom. He told 
 of his first meeting with her, when she welcomed him 
 in her chamber. "She sent for wine and said that soon 
 she would drink it with me in Paris. I saw her mount 
 a plunging black horse, herself all in white armour, 
 but unhelmeted. Her eyes were those of a great cap- 
 tain, and_^ yet merciful and mild like God's Motlier. 
 The sight of her made the heart syig like a May morn- 
 ing. No man could fear death in her company. They 
 tell how . . ." 
 
 But he got no farther. The girl's face was pale 
 with fury, and she tore at her gold neck-chain till it 
 snapped. 
 
 "Enough of your maid!" she cried. "Maid, for- 
 sooth 1 The shame of her has gone throughout the 
 land. She is no maid, but a witch, a light-of-love, a 
 blasphemer. By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this 
 instant between me and your foul peasant. A daugh- 
 ter of . Beaumanoir does not share her lover with a 
 crack-brained virago." 
 
 The young man had also gone pale beneath his 
 sunburn. 
 
THE MAID 99 
 
 "I will not listen," he cried. "You blaspheme a 
 holy angel." 
 
 "But listen you shall," and her voice quivered with 
 passion. She marched up to him and faced him, her 
 slim figure as stiff as a spear. "This very hour you 
 break this mad allegiance and conduct me home to 
 Beaumanoir. Or, by the Sorrows of Mary, you and 
 I will never meet again." 
 
 De Laval did not speak, but stood gazing sadly at 
 the angry loveliness before him. His own face had 
 grown as stubborn as hers. 
 
 "You do not know what you ask," he said at length. 
 "You would have me forswear my God, and my King, 
 and my manhood." 
 
 "A fig for such manhood," she cried with ringing 
 scorn. "If that is a man's devotion, I will end my 
 days in a nunnery. I will have none of it, I tell you. 
 Choose, my fine lover — choose between me and your 
 peasant." 
 
 The young man looked again at the blazing eyes 
 and then without a word turned slowly and left the 
 room. A moment later the sound of horses told that 
 a company had taken the road. 
 
 The girl stood listening till the noise died away. 
 Then she sank all limp in a chair and began to cry. 
 There was wrath in her sobs, and bitter self-pity. 
 She had made a fine tragedy scene, but the glory of it 
 was short. She did not regret it, but an immense 
 dreariness had followed on her heroics. Was there 
 ever, she asked herself, a more unfortunate lady? 
 
 And she had been so happy. Her lover was the 
 bravest gallant that ever came out of Brittahy; rich 
 too, and well beloved, and kin to de Richemont, the 
 Constable. In the happy days at Beaumanoir he was 
 the leader in jousts and valiances, the soul of hunting 
 
loo THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 parties, the lightest foot in the dance. The Beauma- 
 noirs had been a sleepy stock, ever since that Sir 
 Almery, long ago, who had gone crusading with Saint 
 Louis and ridden out of the ken of mortals. Their 
 wealth had bought them peace, and they had kept on 
 good terms alike with France and Burgundy, and even 
 with the unruly captains of England. Wars might 
 sweep round their marches, but their fields were unrav- 
 aged. Shrewd, peaceable folk they N7ere, at least the 
 males of the house. The women had been different, 
 for the daughters of Beaumanoir had been notable for 
 beauty and wit and had married proudly, till the family 
 was kin to half the nobleness of Artois and Picardy 
 and Champagne. There was that terrible great-aunt 
 at Coucy, and the aunts at Beaulieu and Avranches, 
 and the endless cousinhood stretching as far south as 
 the Nivernais. . . . And now the main stock had flow- 
 ered in her, the sole child of her father, and the best 
 match to be found that side of the Loire. 
 
 She sobbed in the chagrin of a new experience. No 
 one in her soft cushioned life had ever dared to gainsay 
 her. At Beaumanoir her word was law. She had 
 loved its rich idleness for the power it gave her. Lux- 
 urious as she was, it was no passive luxury that she 
 craved, but the sense of mastery, of being a rare thing 
 set apart. The spirit of the women of Beaumanoir 
 burned fiercely in her. ... She longed to set her lover 
 in the forefront of the world. Let him crusade if he 
 chose, but not in a beggars' quarrel. And now the 
 palace of glass was shivered, and she was forsaken for 
 a peasant heguine. The thought set her pacing to the 
 window. 
 
 There seemed to be a great to-do without. A dozen 
 lanterns lit up the forecourt, and there was a tramping 
 of many horses. A shouting, too, as if a king were 
 
THE MAID loi 
 
 on the move. She hurriedly dried her eyes and ar- 
 ranged her dress, tossing the reliquary and its broken 
 chain on the table. Some new guests ; and the inn was 
 none too large. She would have the landlord flayed 
 if he dared to intrude on the privacy which she had 
 commanded. Nay, she would summon her people that 
 instant and set off for home, for her company was 
 strong enough to give security in the midnight 
 forests. . . . 
 
 She was about to blow a little silver whistle to call 
 her steward when a step at the door halted her. A 
 figure entered, a stranger. It was a tall stripling, half 
 armed like one who is not for battle but expects a 
 brush at any corner of the road. A long surcoat of 
 dark green and crimson fell stiffy as if it covered metal, 
 and the boots were spurred and defended in front with 
 thin plates of steel. The light helm was open and 
 showed a young face. The stranger moved wearily 
 as if from a long journey. 
 
 "Good even to you, sister," said the voice, a musical 
 voice with the broad accent of Lorraine. "Help me 
 to get rid of this weariful harness." 
 
 Catherine's annoyance was forgotten in amazement. 
 Before she knew what she did her fingers were helping 
 the bold youth to disarm. The helm was removed, 
 the surcoat was stripped, and the steel corslet beneath 
 it. With a merry laugh the stranger kicked off the 
 great boots which were too wide for his slim legs. 
 
 He stretched himself, yawning, and then laughed 
 again. "By my staff," he said, "but I am the weary 
 one." He stood now in the full glow of the lantern, 
 and Catherine saw that he wore close-fitting breeches 
 of fine linen, a dark pourpoint, and a tunic of blue. 
 The black hair was cut short like a soldier's, and the 
 small secret face had the clear tan of one much abroad 
 
102 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 in wind and sun. The eyes were tired and yet merry, 
 great grey eyes as clear and deep as a moorland lake. 
 . . . Suddenly she understood. It may have been the 
 sight of the full laughing lips, or the small maidenly 
 breasts outlined by the close-fitting linen. At any rate 
 she did not draw back when the stranger kissed her 
 cheek. 
 
 "Ah, now I am woman again," said the crooning 
 voice. The unbuckled sword in its leather sheath was 
 laid on the table beside the broken reliquary. "Let us 
 rest side by side, sister, for I long for maids' talk." 
 
 But now Catherine started and recoiled. For on 
 the blue tunic she had caught sight of an embroidered 
 white dove bearing in its beak the scroll De par le Roy 
 du del. It was a blazon the tale of which had gone 
 through France. 
 
 "You are she!" she stammered. "The witch of 
 Lorraine !" 
 
 The other looked wonderingly at her. "I am 
 Jeanne of Arc," she said simply. "She whom they call 
 the Pucelle. Do you shrink from me, sister?" 
 
 Catherine's face was aflame. She remembered her 
 lost lover, and the tears scarcely dry. "Out upon 
 you!" she cried. "You are that false woman that cor- 
 rupt men's hearts." And again her fingers sought the 
 silver whistle. 
 
 Jeanne looked sadly upon her. Her merry eyes had 
 grown grave. 
 
 "I pray you forbear. I do not heed the abuse of 
 men, but a woman's taunts hurt me. They have 
 spoken falsely of me, dear sister. I am no witch, but 
 a poor girl who would fain do the commands of God." 
 
 She sank on the settle with the relaxed limbs of 
 utter fatigue. "I was happy when they told me there 
 was a lady here. I bade Louis and Raymond and the 
 
THE MAID 103 
 
 Sieur d'Aulon leave me undisturbed till morning, for 
 I would fain rest. Oh, but I am weary of councils! 
 They are all blind. They will not hear the plain 
 wishes of God. . . . And I have so short a time! 
 Only a year, and now half is gone!" 
 
 The figure had lost all its buoyancy, and become that 
 of a sad, overwrought girl. Catherine found her 
 anger ebbing and pity stealing into her heart. Could 
 this tired child be the virago against whom she had 
 sworn vengeance? It had none of a woman's allure, 
 no arts of the light-of-love. Its eyes were as simple 
 as a boy's. . . . She looked almost kindly at the 
 drooping Maid. 
 
 But in a moment the languor seemed to pass from 
 her. Her face lit up, as to the watcher in the darkness 
 a window in a tower suddenly becomes a square of 
 light. She sank on her knees, her head thrown back, 
 her lips parted, the long eyelashes quiet on her cheeks. 
 A sudden stillness seemed to fall on everything. 
 Catherine held her breath, and listened to the beating 
 of her heart. 
 
 Jeanne's lips moved, and then her eyes opened. She 
 stood up again, her face entranced and her gaze still 
 dwelling on some hidden world. . . . Never had 
 Catherine seen such happy radiance. 
 
 "My Brothers of Paradise spoke with me. They 
 call me sometimes when I am sad. Their voices said 
 to me, 'Daughter of God, go forward. We are at 
 your side.' " 
 
 Catherine trembled. She seemed on the edge of a 
 world of which in all her cosseted life she had never 
 dreamed, a world of beautiful and terrible things. 
 There was rapture in it, and a great awe. She had 
 forgotten her grievances in wonder. 
 
 "Do not shrink from me," said the voice which 
 
104 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 seemed to have won an unearthly sweetness. "Let 
 us sit together and tell our thoughts. You «re very- 
 fair. Have you a lover ?" 
 
 The word brought the girl to earth. "I had a lover, 
 but this night I dismissed him. He fights in your com- 
 pany, and I see no need for this war." 
 
 Jeanne's voice was puzzled. "Can a man fight in 
 a holier cause than to free his country?" 
 
 "The country ..." But Catherine faltered. Her 
 argument with Guy now seemed only pettishness. 
 
 "You are a great lady," said Jeanne, "and to such 
 as you liberty may seem a little thing. You are so 
 rich that you need never feel constraint. But to us 
 poor folk freedom is life itself. It sweetens the hind's 
 pottage, and gives the meanest an assurance of man- 
 hood. . . . Likewise it is God's will. My Holy Ones 
 have told me that sweet France shall be purged from 
 bondage. They have bidden me see the King crowned 
 and lead him to Paris. . . . After that they have 
 promised me rest." 
 
 She laid an arm round Catherine's neck and looked 
 into her eyes. 
 
 "You are hungry, sister mine," she said. 
 
 The girl started. For the eyes were no longer those 
 of a boy, but of a mother — very wise, very tender. 
 Her own mother had died so long ago that she scarcely 
 remembered her. A rush of longing came over her for 
 something she had never known. She wanted to lay 
 her head on that young breast and weep. 
 
 "You are hungry — and yet I think you have been 
 much smiled on by fortune. You are very fair, and 
 for most women to be beautiful is to be happy. But 
 you are not content, and I am glad of it. There is a 
 hunger that is divine. . . ." 
 
 She broke off, for the girl was sobbing. Crumpled 
 
THE MAID 105 
 
 on the floor, she bent her proud head to the Maid's lap. 
 
 "What must I do?" she cried piteously. "The sight 
 of you makes me feel my rottenness. I have been 
 proud of worthless things and I have cherished that 
 wicked pride that I might forget the doubts knocking 
 on my heart. You say true, I am not content. I shall 
 never be content, I am most malcontent with myself. 
 . . . Would to God that like you I had been born a 
 peasant!" 
 
 The tragic eyes looked up to find the Maid laughing 
 — a kind, gentle merriment. Catherine flushed as 
 Jeanne took her tear-stained face in her hands. 
 
 "You are foolish, little sister. I would I had been 
 born to your station. My task would have been easier 
 had I been Yoland of Sicily or that daughter of the 
 King of Scots from whom many looked for the succour 
 of France. Folly, folly ! There is no virtue in humble 
 blood. I would I had been a queen ! I love fine clothes 
 and rich trappings and the great horse which d'Alengon 
 gave me. God has made a brave world and I would 
 that all His people could get the joy of it. I love it 
 the more because I have only a little time in it." 
 
 "But you are happy," said the girl, "and I want 
 such happiness." 
 
 "There is no happiness," said the Maid, "save in 
 doing the will of God our Father." 
 
 "But I do not know His will. ... I am resolved 
 now. I will take the vows and become a religious, and 
 then I shall find peace. I am weary of all this confus- 
 ing world." 
 
 "Foolish one," and Jeanne played with the little 
 curls which strayed around Catherine's ear. "You 
 were not bom for a nunnery. Not that way God 
 calls you." 
 
 "Show me His way," the girl implored. 
 
io6 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "He shows His way privily to each heart, and His 
 ways are many. For some the life of devout con- 
 templation, but not for you, sister. Your blood is too 
 fiery and your heart too passionate. . . . You have a 
 lover ? Tell me his name. 
 
 Docilely Catherine whispered It, and Jeanne 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 "Sir Guy ! My most loyal champion. By my staff, 
 you are the blessed maid. There is no more joyous 
 knight in all the fields of France." 
 
 "I do not seek wedlock. Oh, It is well for you who 
 are leading armies and doing the commands of God. 
 Something tells me that In marriage I shall lose my 
 soul." 
 
 The girl was on her knees with her hands twined. 
 "Let me follow you," she cried. "I will bring a stout 
 company behind me. Let me ride with you to the 
 freeing of France. I promise to be stalwart." 
 
 The Maid shook her head gently. 
 
 "Then I take the vows." The obstinate little mouth 
 had shut and there were no tears now in the eyes. 
 
 "Listen, child," and Jeanne took the suppliant hands 
 in hers. "It is true that God has called me to a holy 
 task. He has sent His angels to guide me and they 
 talk with me often. The Lady of Fierbois has ^ven 
 me a mystic sword. I think that in a little while this 
 land will be free again. . . . But I shall not see It, 
 for God's promise is clear, and for me it does not give 
 length of days. I did not seek this errand of mine. 
 I resisted the command, till God was stem with me 
 and I submitted with bitter tears. I shall die a maid, 
 and can never know the blessedness of women. Often 
 at night I weep to think that I shall never hold a babe 
 next my heart." 
 
 The face of Jeanne was suddenly strained with a 
 
THE MAID 107 
 
 great sadness. It was Catherine's turn to be the com- 
 forter. She sat herself beside her and drew her head 
 to her breast. 
 
 "For you I see a happier fate — a true man's wife — ■ 
 the mother of sons. Bethink you of the blessedness. 
 Every wife is like the Mother of God — she has the 
 hope of bearing a saviour of mankind. She is the 
 channel of the eternal purpose of Heaven. Could I 
 change — could I change ! What fortunate wife would 
 envy a poor maid that dwells in the glare of battle? 
 . . . Nay, I do not murmur. I do God's will and 
 rejoice in it. But I am very lonely." 
 
 For a little there was silence, an ecstatic silence. 
 Something hard within Catherine melted and she felt 
 a gush of pity. No longer self-pity, but compassion 
 for another. Her heart grew suddenly warm. It was 
 as if a window had been opened in a close room to let 
 in air and landscape. 
 
 "I must rest, for there is much ado to-morrow. Will 
 you sleep by me, for I have long been starved of a 
 woman's comradeship?" 
 
 In the great canopied bed the two girls lay till 
 morning. Once in the darkness Catherine started and 
 found her arms empty. Jeanne was kneeling by the 
 window, her head thrown back and the moonlight on 
 her upturned face. When she woke in the dawn the 
 Maid was already up, trussing the points of her 
 breeches and struggling with her long boots. She was 
 crooning the verse of a ballad : 
 
 "Serais je nonettel Crois que non — " 
 
 and looking with happy eyes at the cool morning light 
 on the forest. 
 
 "Up, sleepy-head," she cried. "Listen to the merry 
 trampling of the horses. I must start, if I would spare 
 
io8 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the poor things in the noon. Follow me with your 
 prayers, for France rides with me. I love you, sweet 
 sister. Be sure I will hasten to you when my work is 
 done." 
 
 So the Maid and her company rode off through the 
 woods to Compiegne, and a brooding and silent Cath- 
 erine took the north road to Picardy. 
 
 The promise was kept. Once again Catherine saw 
 and had speech of Jeanne. It was nearly two years 
 later, when she sat in a May gloaming in the house 
 of Beaumanoir, already three months a bride. Much 
 had happened since she had ridden north from the inn 
 at the forest cross-roads. She had summoned de Laval 
 to her side, and the lovers had been reconciled. Her 
 father had died in the winter and the great fortune 
 and wide manors of the family were now her own. 
 Her lover had fought with Jeanne in the futile battles 
 of the spring, but he had been far away when in the 
 fatal sortie at Compiegne the Maid was taken by her 
 enemies. All the summer of that year he had made 
 desperate efforts at rescue, but Jeanne was tight in 
 English hands, and presently was in prison at Rouen 
 awaiting judgment, while her own king and his false 
 councillors stirred not hand or foot to save her. Sir 
 Guy had hurled himself on Burgundy, and with a 
 picked band made havoc of the eastern roads, but he 
 could not break the iron cordon of Normandy. In 
 February they had been wed, but after that Beau- 
 manoir saw him little, for he was reading Burgundy a 
 lesson In the Santerre. 
 
 Catherine sat at home, anxious, tremulous, but 
 happy. A new-made wife lives in a new world; and 
 though at times she grieved for the shame of her land, 
 her mind was too full of housewifely cares, and her 
 
THE MAID 109 
 
 heart of her husband, for long repining. But often 
 the thought of Jeanne drove a sword into her con- 
 tentment. ... So when she lifted her eyes from her 
 embroidery and saw the Maid before her, rehef and 
 gladness sent her running to greet her. 
 
 Long afterwards till she was very old Catherine 
 would tell of that hour. She saw the figure outlined 
 against a window full of the ametTiyst sky of evening. 
 The white armour and the gay surcoat were gone. 
 Jeanne was still clad like a boy in a coarse grey tunic 
 and black breeches, but her boots did not show any 
 dust of the summer roads. Her face was very pale, 
 as if from long immurement, and her eyes were no 
 more merry. They shone instead with a grave ardour 
 of happiness, which checked Catherine's embrace and 
 set her heart beating. 
 
 She walked with light steps and kissed the young 
 wife's cheek — a kiss like thistledown. 
 
 "You are free?" Catherine stammered. Her voice 
 seemed to break unwillingly on a holy quiet. 
 
 "I am free," the Maid answered. "I have come 
 again to you as I promised. But I cannot bide long. 
 I am on a journey." 
 
 "You go to the King?" said Catherine. 
 
 "I go to my King." 
 
 The Maid's hand took Catherine's, and her touch 
 was like the fall of gossamer. She fingered the girl's 
 broad ring which had come from distant ancestors, 
 the ring which Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir had worn 
 in the Crusades. She raised it and pressed it to her 
 lips. 
 
 Catherine's limbs would not do her bidding. She 
 would fain have risen in a hospitable bustle, but she 
 seemed to be held motionless. Not by fear, but by 
 an exquisite and happy awe. She remembered after- 
 
no THE PATH OF THE KINGT 
 
 wards that from the Maid's rough clothes had come 
 a faint savour of wood-smoke, as from one who has 
 been tending a bonfire in the autumn stubble. 
 
 "God be with you, lady, and with the good knight, 
 your husband. Remember my word to you, that every 
 wife is like Mary the Blessed and may bear a saviour 
 of mankind. The road is long, but the ways of 
 Heaven are sure." 
 
 Catherine stretched out her arms, for a longing so 
 fierce had awoke in her that it gave her power to move 
 again. Never in her life had she felt such a hunger of 
 wistfulness. But Jeanne evaded her embrace. She 
 stood poised as if listening. 
 
 "They are calling me. I go. Adieu, sweet sister." 
 
 A light shone in her face which did not come from 
 the westering sun. To Catherine there was no sound 
 of voices, but the Maid seemed to hear and answer. 
 She raised her hand as if in blessing and passed out. 
 
 Catherine sat long in an entranced silence. Waves 
 of utter longing flowed over her, till she fell on her 
 knees and prayer passionately to her saints, among 
 whom not the least was that grey-tunicked Maid whose 
 eyes seemed doorways into heaven. Her tirewoman 
 found her asleep on her faldstool. 
 
 Early next morning there came posts to Beaumanoir, 
 men on weary horses with a tragic message. On the 
 day before, in the market-place of Rouen, the chief 
 among the daughters of God had journeyed through 
 the fire to Paradise. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE WOOD OF LIFE 
 
 npHE Lady Catherine de Laval, in her own right 
 ■■■ Countess of Beaumanoir, and mistress of fiefs 
 and manors, rights of chase and warren, mills and 
 hospices, the like of which were not in Picardy, was 
 happy in all things but her family. Her one son had 
 fallen in his youth in an obscure fray in Guienne, leav- 
 ing two motherless boys who, after her husband's 
 death, were the chief business of life to the Countess 
 Catherine. The elder, Aimery, grew to manhood after 
 the fashion of the men of her own house, a somewhat 
 heavy country gentleman, much set upon rustic sports, 
 slow at learning, and averse alike from camps and 
 cities. The ambition of the grandmother found noth- 
 ing to feed upon in the young lord of Beaumanoir. He 
 was kind, virtuous and honest, but dull as a pool on a 
 winter's highway. 
 
 Catherine would fain have had the one youth a 
 soldier and the other a saint, and of the two ambitions 
 she most cherished the latter. The first made ship- 
 wreck on the rustic Aimery, and therefore the second 
 burned more fiercely. She had the promise from the 
 saints that her line had a great destiny, and the form 
 of it she took to be sanctitude. For, all her married 
 days she had ruled her life according to the canons of 
 God, fasting and praying, cherishing the poor, tending 
 the afflicted, giving of her great wealth bountifully to 
 the Church. She had a name for holiness as far as 
 
 III 
 
112 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the coasts of Italy. Surely from the blood of Beau- 
 manoir one would arise to be in dark times a defender 
 of the Faith, a champion of Christ whom after death 
 the Church should accept among the beatified. Such 
 a fate she desired for her seed more hungrily than any 
 Emperor's crown. 
 
 In the younger, Philip, there was hope. He had 
 been an odd child, slim and pale while Aimery was 
 large and ruddy, shy where his brother was bold and 
 bold where he was shy. He was backward in games 
 and unready in a quarrel, but it was observed that he 
 had no fear of the dark, or of the Green Lady that 
 haunted the river avenue. Father Ambrose, his tutor, 
 reported him of quick and excellent parts, but marred 
 by a dreaminess which might grow into desidia, that 
 deadly sin. He had a peculiar grace of body and a 
 silken courtesy of manner which won hearts. His 
 grey eyes, even as a small boy, were serious and wise. 
 But he seemed to dwell aloof, and while his brother's 
 moods were plain for all to read, he had from early 
 days a self-control which presented a mask to his little 
 world. With this stoicism went independence. Philip 
 walked his own way with a gentle obstinacy. "A saint, 
 maybe," Father Ambrose told his grandmother. "But 
 the kind of saint that the Church will ban before it 
 blesses." 
 
 To the old dame of Beaumanoir the child was the 
 apple of her eye; and her affection drew from him a 
 tenderness denied to others. But it brought no con- 
 fidences. The dreaming boy made his own world, 
 which was not, like his grandmother's, one of a dark 
 road visited rarely by angels, with heaven as a shining 
 city at the end of it; or, like his brother's, a green 
 place of earthy jollity. It was as if the Breton blood 
 of the Lavals and Rohans had brought to the solid 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 113 
 
 stock of Beaumanoir the fairy whimsies of their dim 
 ancestors. While the moors and woodlands were to 
 Aimery only places to fly a hawk or follow a stag, to 
 Philip they were a wizard land where dreams grew. 
 And the mysteries of the Church were also food for his 
 gold fancy, which by reshaping them stripped them of 
 all terrors. He was extraordinarily happy, for he had 
 the power to make again each fresh experience in a 
 select inner world in which he walked as king, since 
 he was its creator. 
 
 He was a child of many fancies, but one especially 
 stayed with him. When still very small, he slept in 
 a cot in his grandmother's room, the walls of which 
 were hung with tapestry from the Arras looms. One 
 picture caught his eye, for the morning sun struck it, 
 and when he woke early it glowed invitingly before 
 him. It represented a little river twining about a 
 coppice. There was no figure in the piece, which was 
 bounded on one side by a great armoire, and on the 
 other by the jamb of the chimney; but from the 
 extreme corner projected the plume of a helmet and 
 the tip of a lance. There was someone there, some- 
 one riding towards the trees. It grew upon Philip that 
 that little wood was a happy place, most happy and 
 desirable. He fancied himself the knight, and he 
 longed to be moving up the links of the stream. He 
 followed every step of the way, across the shallow 
 ford, past the sedges of a backwater, between two 
 clumps of willows, and then over smooth green grass 
 to the edge of the wood. But he never tried to picture 
 what lay inside. That was sacred — even from his 
 thoughts. 
 
 When he grew older and was allowed to prowl about 
 in the scriptorium of the Abbey of Montmirail which 
 lay by the Canche side, he found his wood again. It 
 
114 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 was in a Psaltery on which a hundred years before 
 some Flemish monk had lavished his gold and ver- 
 milion. Opposite the verse of Psalm xxiii., "In loco 
 pascuae," was a picture almost the same as that in the 
 bedroom arras. There were the river, the meadows, 
 and the little wood, painted in colours far brighter 
 than the tapestry. Never was such bloom of green 
 or such depth of blue. But there was a difference. 
 No lance or plume projected from the corner. The 
 traveller had emerged from cover, and was walking 
 waist-deep in the lush grasses. He was a thin, nonde- 
 script pilgrim, without arms save a great staff like the 
 crozier of a Bishop. Philip was disappointed in him 
 and preferred the invisible knight, but the wood was 
 all he had desired. It was indeed a blessed place, and 
 the old scribe had known it, for a scroll of gold hung 
 above it with the words "Sylva Vitae." 
 
 At the age of ten the boy had passed far beyond 
 Father Ambrose, and was sucking the Abbey dry of 
 its learning, like some second Abelard. In the cloisters 
 of Montmirail were men who had a smattering of the 
 New Knowledge, about which Italy had gone mad, and, 
 by the munificence of the Countess Catherine, copies 
 had been made by the Italian stationarii of some of the 
 old books of Rome which the world had long forgot- 
 ten. In the Abbey library, among a waste of antiphon- 
 aries and homilies and monkish chronicles, were to 
 be found texts of Livy and Lucretius and the letters 
 of Cicero. Philip was already a master of Latin, 
 writing it with an elegance worthy of Niccolo the 
 Florentine. At fourteen he entered the college of 
 Robert of Sorbonne, but found little charm In its 
 scholastic pedantry. But In the capital he learned the 
 Greek tongue from a Byzantine, the elder Lascaris, 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 115 
 
 and copied with his own hand a great part of Plato 
 and Aristotle. His thirst grew with every draught of 
 the new vintage. To Pavia he went and sat at the 
 feet of Lorenzo Vallo. The company of Pico della 
 Mirandola at Florence sealed him of the Platonic 
 school, and like his master he dallied with mysteries 
 and had a Jew in his house to teach him Hebrew that 
 he might find a way of reconciling the Scriptures and 
 the classics, the Jew and the Greek. From the verses 
 which he wrote at this time, beautifully turned hexa- 
 meters with a certain Lucretian cadence, it is clear that 
 his mind was like Pico's, hovering about the borderland 
 of human knowledge, clutching at the eternally evasive. 
 Plato's Banquet was his gospel, where the quest of 
 truth did not lack the warmth of desire. Only a frag- 
 ment remains now of the best of his ppems, that which 
 earned the praise of Ficino and the great Lorenzo, and 
 it is significant that the name of the piece was "The 
 Wood of Life." 
 
 At twenty Philip returned to Beaumanoir after long 
 wanderings. He was the perfect scholar who had 
 toiled at books and not less at the study of mankind. 
 But his well-knit body and clear eyes showed no marks 
 of bookishness, and Italy had made him a swordsman. 
 A somewhat austere young man, he had kept himself 
 unspotted in the rotting life of the Italian courts, and 
 though he had learned from them suavity had not lost 
 his simplicity. But he was more aloof than ever. 
 There was little warmth in the grace of his courtesy, 
 and his eyes were graver than before. It seemed that 
 they had found much, but had had no joy of it, and 
 that they were still craving. It was a disease of the 
 time and men called it aeg^itudo. "No saint," the 
 aged Ambrose told the Countess. "Virtuous, indeed, 
 but not with the virtue of the religious. He will never 
 
ii6 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 enter the Church. He has drunk at headier streams." 
 
 The Countess was nearing her end. All her days, 
 for a saint, she had been a shrewd observer of life, but 
 with the weakening of her body's strength she had 
 sunk into the ghostly world which the Church devised 
 as an ante-room to immortality. Her chamber was 
 thronged with lean friars like shadows. To her came 
 the Bishop of Beauvals, once a star of the Court, but 
 now in his age a grim watch-dog of the Truth. To 
 him she spoke of her hopes for Philip. 
 
 "An Italianate scholar I" cried the old man. "None 
 such shall pollute the Church with my will. They are 
 beguiled by such baubles as the holy Saint Gregory de- 
 nounced, poetarum figmenta she deliramenta. If your 
 grandson, madame, is to enter the service of God he 
 must renounce these pagan follies." 
 
 The Bishop went, but his words remained. In the 
 hour of her extremity the vision of Catherine was 
 narrowed to a dreadful antagonism of light and dark- 
 ness — ^God and Antichrist — the narrow way of salva- 
 tion and a lost world. She was obsessed by the peril 
 of her darling. Her last act must be to pluck him from 
 his temptress. Her mood was fanned by the monks 
 who surrounded her, narrow men whose honesty made 
 them potent. 
 
 The wan face on the bed moved Philip deeply. 
 Tenderness filled his heart, and a great sense of 
 alienation, for the dying woman spoke a tongue he had 
 forgotten. Their two worlds were divided by a gulf 
 which affection could not bridge. She spoke not with 
 her own voice but with that of her confessors when 
 she pled with him to do her wishes. 
 
 "I have lived long," she said, "and know that the 
 bread of this world Is ashes. There is no peace but 
 in God. You have always been the child of my heart, 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 117 
 
 Philip, and I cannot die at ease till I am assured of 
 your salvation. ... I have the prevision that from 
 me a saint shall be born. It is God's plain command- 
 ment to you. Obey, and I go to Him with a quiet soul." 
 
 For a moment he was tempted. Surely it was a little 
 thing this, to gladden the dying. The rich Abbey of 
 Montmirail was his for the taking, and where would 
 a scholar's life be more happily lived than among its 
 cool cloisters ? A year ago, when he had been in the 
 mood of seeing all contraries but as degrees in an 
 ultimate truth, he might have assented. But in that 
 dim chamber, with burning faces around him and the 
 shadow of death overhead, he discovered in himself a 
 new scrupulousness. It was the case of Esau; he was 
 bidden sell his birthright, for pottage, and affection 
 could not gloze over the bargain. 
 
 "I have no vocation," he said sadly. "I would fain 
 do the will of God, but God must speak His will to 
 each heart, and He does not speak thus to me." 
 
 There was that in the words which woke a far-away 
 memory of her girlhood. Once another in a forest 
 inn had spoken thus to her. She stretched out her 
 hand to him, and he covered It with kisses. 
 
 But in the night the priests stirred her fears again, 
 and next morning there was another tragic pleading, 
 from which Philip fled almost in tears. Presently he 
 found himself denied her chamber, unless he could give 
 assurance of a changed mind. And so the uneasy days 
 went on, till in a dawn of wind amid a great praying 
 and chanting the soul of the Countess Catherine 
 passed, and Aimery reigned In Beaumanoir. 
 
 The place had grown hateful to Philip and he made 
 ready to go. For him In his recalcitrancy there was 
 only a younger son's portion, the little selgneury of 
 Eaucourt, which had been his mother's. The good 
 
ii8 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Aimery would have increased the inheritance, but 
 Philip would have none of it. He had made his choice, 
 and to ease his conscience must abide strictly by the 
 consequences. Those days at Beaumanoir had plucked 
 him from his moorings. For the moment the ardour 
 of his quest for knowledge had burned low. He stifled 
 in the air of the north, which was heavy with the fog 
 of a furious ignorance. But his mind did not turn 
 happily to the trifling of his Italian friends. There 
 was a tragic greatness about such as his grandmother, 
 a salt of nobility which was lacking among the mellow 
 Florentines. Truth, it seemed to him, lay neither with 
 the old Church nor the New Learning, and not by 
 either way could he reach the desire of his heart. 
 
 Aimery bade him a reluctant farewell. "If you will 
 not keep me company here, I go to the wars. At 
 Beaumanoir I grow fat. Ugh, this business of dying 
 chills me." And then with a very red face he held 
 out a gold ring. "Take it, Philip. She cherished it, 
 and you were her favourite and should wear it. God 
 knows I have enough." 
 
 Likewise he presented him with a little vellum-bound 
 book. "I found this yesterday, and you being the 
 scholar among us should have it. See, the grand- 
 mother's name is written within." 
 
 It was a bright May morning when Philip, attended 
 by only two lackeys as became a poor man, rode over 
 the bridge of Canche with eyes turned southward. In 
 the green singing world the pall lifted from his spirits. 
 The earth which God had made was assuredly bigger 
 and better than man's philosophies. "It would ap- 
 pear," he told himself, "that like the younger son in 
 the tale, I am setting out to look for fortune." 
 
 At an inn in the city of Orleans he examined his 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE ng 
 
 brother's gift. It was a. volume of careful manuscript, 
 entitled Itnaffo Mundi, and bearing the name of one 
 Pierre d'Ailly, who had been Bishop of Cambray when 
 the Countess Catherine was a child. He opened it and 
 read of many marvels — how that the world was round, 
 as Pythagoras held, so that if a man travelled west he 
 would come in time to Asia where the sun rose. Philip 
 brooded over the queer pages, letting his fancy run 
 free, for he had been so wrapped up in the mysteries 
 of man's soul that he had forgotten the mysteries of 
 the earth which is that soul's place of pilgrimage. He 
 read of cities with silver walls and golden towers wait- 
 ing on the discoverer, and of a river on whose banks 
 "virescit syhva vita." And at that phrase he fell to 
 dreaming of his childhood, and a pleasant unrest 
 stirred in his heart. "Aimery has given me a precious 
 viaticum," he said. 
 
 He travelled by slow stages into Italy, for he had ' 
 no cause for haste. At Pavia he wandered listlessly 
 • among the lecture halls. What had once seemed to 
 him the fine gold of eloquence was now only leaden 
 rhetoric. In his lodging at Florence he handled once 
 again his treasures — his books from Ficino's press; his 
 manuscripts, some from Byzantium yellow with age, 
 some on clean white vellum new copied by his order; 
 his busts and gems and intaglios. What had become 
 of that fervour with which he had been used to gaze 
 on them? What of that delicious world into which, 
 with drawn curtains and a clear lamp, he could retire 
 at will? The brightness had died in the air. 
 
 He found his friends very full of quarrels. There 
 was a mighty feud between two of them on the respec- 
 tive merits of Cicero and Quintilian as lawgivers in 
 grammar, and the air was thick with libels. Another 
 
120 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 pair wrangled in public over the pre-eminence of Scipio 
 and Julius Caesar; others on narrow points of Latinity. 
 There was a feud among the Platonists on a matter of 
 interpretation, in which already stilettos had been 
 drawn. More bitter still was the strife about mis- 
 tresses — kitchen-wenches and courtesans, where one 
 scholar stole shamelessly from the other and decked 
 with names like Lesbia and Erinna. . . . Philip sick- 
 ened at what he had before tolerated, for he had 
 brought back with him from the north a quickened 
 sense of sin. Maybe the Bishop of Beauvais had been 
 right. What virtue was there in this new knowledge 
 if its prophets were apes and satyrs ! Not here grew 
 the Wood of Life. Priapus did not haunt its green 
 fringes. 
 
 His mind turned towards Venice. There the sea 
 was, and there men dwelt with eyes turned to spacious 
 and honourable quests, not to monkish hells and 
 heavens or inward to unclean hearts. And in Venice 
 in a tavern off the Merceria he spoke with destiny. 
 
 It was a warm evening, and, having dined early, he 
 sought the balcony which overlooked the canal. It was 
 empty but for one man who sat at a table with a spread 
 of papers before him on which he was intently en- 
 gaged. Philip bade him good evening, and a face was 
 raised which promptly took his fancy. The stranger 
 wore a shabby grey doublet, but he had no air of pov- 
 erty, for round his neck hung a massive chain of gold, 
 and his broad belt held a richly chased dagger. He 
 had unbuckled his sword, and it lay on the table hold- 
 ing down certain vagrant papers which fluttered in the 
 evening wind. His face was hard and red like sand- 
 stone, and around his eyes were a multitude of 
 fine wrinkles. It was these eyes that arrested Philip. 
 They were of a pale brown as if bleached by weather 
 and gazing over vast spaces; cool and quiet and 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 121 
 
 friendly, but with a fire burning at the back of them. 
 The man assessed Philip at a glance, and then, as if 
 liking what he found in him, smiled so that white 
 furrows appeared in his tanned cheeks. With a motion 
 of his hand he swept aside his papers and beckoned 
 the other to sit with him. He called on the drawer to 
 bring a flask of Cyprus. 
 
 "I was about to have my evening draught," he said. 
 "Will you honour me with your company, sir?" 
 
 The voice was so pleasant that Philip, who was in 
 a mood to shun talk, could not refuse. He sat down 
 by the board, and moved aside a paper to make room 
 for the wine. He noticed that it was a map. 
 
 The Bishop of Cambray had made him curious 
 about such things. He drew it to him, and saw that 
 it was a copy of Andrea Bianco's chart, drawn nearly 
 half a century before, showing the Atlantic Sea with a 
 maze of islands stretching westwards. 
 
 The other shook his head. "A poor thing and out 
 of date. Here," and he plucked a sheet from below 
 the rest, "here is a better, which Fra Mauro of this 
 city drew for the great prince, Henry of Portugal." 
 
 Philip looked at the map, which showed a mis- 
 shapen sprawling Africa, but with a clear ocean way 
 round the south of it. His interest quickened. He 
 peered at the queer shapes in the dimming light. 
 ''Then there is a way to the Indies by sea?" 
 "Beyond doubt. I myself have turned the butt of 
 Africa. ... If these matters interest you? But the 
 thought of that dry land has given me an African, 
 thirst. He, drawer!" 
 
 He filled his glass from a fresh bottle. " 'Twas in 
 June four years back. I was in command of a caravel 
 in the expedition of Diaz. The court of Lisbon had 
 a fit of cold ague and we sailed with little goodwill; 
 therefore it was our business to confound the doubters 
 
122 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 or perish. Already our seamen had reached the mouth 
 of that mighty river they called the Congo, and clearly 
 the butt of Africa could not be distant. We had the 
 course of Cam and Behaim to guide us thus far, but 
 after that was the darkness." 
 
 The man's face had the intent look of one who 
 remembers with passion. He told of the struggle to 
 cross the Guinea Deep instead of hugging the shore; 
 of blue idle days of calm when magic fish flew aboard 
 and Leviathan wallowed so near that the caravels 
 were all but overwhelmed by the wave of him; of a 
 storm which swept the decks and washed away the 
 Virgin on the bows of the Admiral's ship; of landfall 
 at last in a place where the forests were knee deep in 
 a muddy sea, strange forests where the branches twined 
 like snakes ; of a going ashore at a river mouth full of 
 toothed serpents and giant apes, and of a fight with 
 Behemoth among the reeds. Then a second storm 
 blowing from the east had flung them seaward, and for 
 weeks they were out of sight of land, steering by 
 strange stars. They had their magnets and astrolabes, 
 but it was a new world they had entered, and they 
 trusted God rather than their wits. At last they 
 turned eastward. 
 
 "What distance before the turn?" Philip asked. 
 
 "I know not. We were far from land and no man 
 can measure a course on water." 
 
 "Nay, but the ancients could," Philip cried, and he 
 explained how the Romans had wheels of a certain 
 diameter fixed to their ships' sides which the water 
 turned in its passing, and which flung for each revolu- 
 tion a pebble into a tally-box." 
 
 The other's eyes widened. "A master device! I 
 would hear more of it. What a thing it is to have 
 learning! We had only the hour-glass and guess* 
 work." 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 123 
 
 Then he told how on a certain day the crews would 
 go no farther, being worn out by storms, for in those 
 seas the tides were like cataracts and the waves were 
 mountains. The admiral, Bartholomew Diaz, was 
 forced to put about with a heavy heart, for he believed 
 that a little way to the east he should find the southern 
 cape of Africa. He steered west by north, looking for 
 no land till Guinea was sighted. "But on the second 
 morning we saw land to the northward, and following 
 it westward came to a mighty cape so high that the 
 top was in the clouds. There was such a gale from the 
 east that we could do no more than gaze on it as we 
 scudded past. Presently, still keeping land in sight, we 
 were able to bend north again, and when we came into 
 calm waters we captains went aboard the admiral's ship 
 and knelt and gave thanks to God for His mercies. 
 For we, the first of mortals, had rounded the butt of 
 Africa and prepared the sea-road to the Indies." 
 
 "A vision maybe." 
 
 "Nay, it was no vision. I returned there under mild 
 skies, when It was no longer a misty rock, but a green 
 mountain. We landed, and set up a cross and ate the 
 fruits and drank the water of the land. Likewise we 
 changed its name from the Cape of Storms, as Diaz 
 had dubbed it, to the Bona Esperanza, for indeed it 
 seemed to us the hope of the world." 
 
 "And beyond it?" 
 
 "Beyond it we found a pleasant country, and would 
 doubtless have made the Indies, if our ships had not 
 grown foul and our crews mutinous from fear of the 
 unknown. It is clear to me that we must establish a 
 port of victualling in that southern Africa before we 
 can sail the last stage to Cathay." 
 
 The man spoke modestly and simply as if he were 
 talking of a little journey from one village to another. 
 Something in his serious calm powerfully caught 
 
124 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Philip's fanqr. In all his days he had never met such 
 a one. 
 
 "I have not your name, Signor," he said. 
 
 "They call me Battista de Cosca, a citizen of Genoa, 
 but these many years a wanderer. And yours?" 
 
 Philip gave it and the stranger bowed. The de 
 Lavals were known as a great house far beyond the 
 confines of France. 
 
 "You contemplate another voyage?" 
 
 The brown man nodded. "I am here on the quest 
 of maps, for these Venetians are the princes of map- 
 making. Then I sail again." 
 
 "To Cathay?" 
 
 A sudden longing had taken Philip. It was as if 
 a bright strange world had been spread before him 
 compared with which the old was tarnished and dingy. 
 
 Battista shook his head. "Not Cathay. To go 
 there would be only to make assurance of that which 
 we already know. I have shown the road: let others 
 plan its details and build hostelries. For myself I am 
 for a bolder venture." 
 
 The balcony was filling up. A noisy group of young 
 men were chattering at one table, and at others some 
 of the merchants from the Merceria were at wine. But 
 where the two sat it was quiet and dusky, though 
 without on the canal the sky made a golden mirror. 
 Philip could see his companion's face in the reflected 
 light, and it reminded him of the friars who had filled 
 the chamber of his dying grandmother. It was 
 strained with a steadfast ardour. 
 
 Battista leaned his elbows on the board and his eyes 
 searched the other's. 
 
 "I am minded to open my heart to you," he said. 
 "You are young and of a noble stock. Likewise you 
 are a scholar. I am on a mission, Sir Philip — the 
 loftiest, I think, since Moses led Israel over the 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 125 
 
 deserts. I am seeking a promised land. Not Cathay, 
 but a greater. I sail presently, not the African seas, 
 but the Sea of Darkness, the Mare Atlanticum." He 
 nodded towards Bianco's map. "I am going beyond 
 the Ultimate Islands." 
 
 "Listen," he went on, and his voice fell very low 
 and deep. "I take it we live in these latter days of 
 which the prophets spoke. I remember a monk in 
 Genoa who said that the Blessed Trinity ruled in turn, 
 and that the reign of the Father was accomplished 
 and that of the Son nearing its close; and that now 
 the reign of the Spirit was at hand. It may have been 
 heresy — I am no scholar — but he pointed a good 
 moral. For, said he, the old things pass away and 
 the boundaries of the world are shifting. Here in 
 Europe we have come to knowledge of salvation, and 
 brought the soul and mind of man to an edge and 
 brightness like a sword. Having perfected the weapon, 
 it is now God's will that we enter into possession of 
 the new earth which He has kept hidden against this 
 day, and He has sent His Spirit like a wind to blow 
 us into those happy spaces. . . . Now, mark you, sir, 
 this earth is not a flat plain surrounded by outer dark- 
 ness, but a sphere hung in the heavens and sustained 
 by God's hand. Therefore if a man travel east or 
 west he will, if God prosper him, return in time to his 
 starting-point." 
 
 The speaker looked at Philip as if to invite contra- 
 diction, but the other nodded. 
 
 "It is the belief of the best sailors," Battista went 
 on; "it is the belief of the great Paolo Toscanelli in 
 this very land of Italy." 
 
 "It was the belief of a greater than he. The an- 
 cients " 
 
 "Ay, what of your ancients?" Battista asked eagerly. 
 
 Philip responded with a scholar'^ zest. "Four 
 
126 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 centuries before our Lord's birth Aristotle taught the 
 doctrine, from observing in different places the rise 
 and setting of the heavenly bodies. The sages 
 Eratosthenes, Hipparchus and Ptolemy amplified the 
 teaching. It is found in the poetry of Manilius and 
 Seneca, and it was a common thought in the minds 
 of Virgil and Ovid and Pliny. You will find it in St. 
 Augustine, and St. Isidore and Beda, and in many of 
 the moderns. I myself have little knowledge of such 
 things, but on the appeal to high authority your doc- 
 trine succeeds." 
 
 "What a thing is learning!" Battista exclaimed 
 with reverence. "Here have I and such as I been 
 fumbling in the dark when the great ones of old saw 
 clearly ! ... It follows, then, that a voyage westward 
 will bring a man to Cathay?" 
 
 "Assuredly. But how will he return?. If the earth 
 is a sphere, his course will be a descent, and on his way 
 back he will have to climb a great steep of waters." 
 
 "It is not so," said Battista vigorously. "Though 
 why it is not so I cannot tell. Travelling eastward 
 by land there is no such descent, and in this Mediter- 
 ranean sea of ours one can sail as easily from Cadiz 
 to Egypt as from Egypt to Cadiz. There is a divine 
 alchemy in it which I cannot fathom, but the fact 
 stands." 
 
 "Then you would reach Cathay by the west?" 
 
 "Not Cathay." The man's voice was very earnest. 
 "There is a land between us and Cathay, a great island- 
 land beyond the Seven Cities of Antillia." 
 
 "Cipango," said Philip, who had read Marco Polo's 
 book in the Latin version published a year or two 
 before. 
 
 "Nay, not Cipango. On this side Cipango. Of 
 Cipango the Venetians have told us much, but the land 
 I seek is not Cipango." 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 127 
 
 He drew closer to Philip and spoke low. "There 
 was a Frenchman, a Rochellois — ^he is dead these ten 
 years — ^but I have spoken with him. He was whirled 
 west by storms far beyond Antillia, and was gripped 
 by a great ocean stream and carried to land. What 
 think you it was? No less than Hy-Brasil. There he 
 found men, broad-faced dusky men, with gentle souls, 
 and saw such miracles as have never been vouchsafed 
 to mortals. 'Twas not Cipango or Cathay, for there 
 were no Emperors or cities, but a peaceful race dwell- 
 ing in innocence. The land was like Eden, bringing 
 forth five harvests in the year, and vines and all manner 
 of fruits grew without tillage. Tortorel was the man's 
 name, and some thought him mad, but I judged differ- 
 ently. I have talked with him and I have copied his 
 charts. I go to find those Fortunate Islands." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 "I have friends. There is a man of my own city — 
 Cristoforo Colombo, they call him. He is a hard man 
 and a bitter, but a master seaman, and there is a fire in 
 him that will not be put out. And there may be 
 others." 
 
 His steadfast burning eyes held Philip's. 
 
 "And you — what do you seek?" he asked. 
 
 Philip was aware that he had come to a cross-roads 
 in life. The easy path he had planned for himself was 
 barred by his own nature. Something of his grand- 
 mother's blood clamoured within him for a sharper 
 air than the well-warmed chamber of the scholar. This 
 man, chance met in a tavern, had revealed to him his 
 own heart. 
 
 "I am looking for the Wood of Life," he said simply 
 and was amazed at his words. 
 
 Battlsta stared at him with open mouth, and then 
 plucked feverishly at his doublet. From an inner 
 pocket he produced a packet rolled in fine leather, and 
 
128 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 shook papers on the table. One of these was a soiled 
 and worn slip of parchment, covered with an odd 
 design. "Look," he said hoarsely. "Tortorel's map !" 
 
 It showed a stretch of country, apparently a broad 
 valley running east to a seashore. Through it twined 
 a river and on both sides were hills dotted with trees. 
 The centre seemed to be meadows, sown with villages 
 and gardens. In one crook of the stream lay a little 
 coppice on which many roads converged, and above it 
 was written the words "Sylva Vitae." 
 
 "It is the finger of God," said Battista. "Will you 
 join me and search out this Wood of Life?" 
 
 At that moment there was a bustle at the door 
 giving on the main room of the tavern. Lights were 
 being brought in and a new company were entering. 
 They talked in high-pitched affected voices and giggled 
 like bona-robas. There were young men with them, 
 dressed in the height of the fashion ; a woman or two, 
 and a man who from the richness of his dress seemed 
 to be one of the princely merchants who played 
 Maecenas to the New Learning. But what caught 
 Philip's sight was a little group of Byzantines who 
 were the guests of honour. They wore fantastic head- 
 dresses and long female robes, above which their 
 flowing dyed beards and their painted eyebrows looked 
 like masks of Carnival time. After Battista's gravity 
 their vain eyes and simpering tones seemed an indecent 
 folly. These were the folk he had called friends, this 
 the life he had once cherished. Assuredly he was well 
 rid of it. 
 
 He grasped Battista's hand. 
 
 "I will go with you," he said, "over the edge of 
 the world." 
 
 • • . • . 
 
 As it happened Philip de Laval did not sail with 
 Columbus in that first voyage which brought him to 
 
THE WOOD OF LIFE 129 
 
 San Salvador in the Bahamas. But he and Battista 
 were in the second expedition, when the ship under the 
 command of the latter was separated by a storm from 
 her consorts, and driven on a westerly course when the 
 others had turned south. It was believed to be lost, 
 and for two years nothing was heard of its fate. At 
 the end of that time a tattered little vessel reached 
 Bordeaux, and Philip landed on the soil of France. 
 He had a strange story to tell. The ship had been 
 caught up by a current which had borne it north for 
 the space of fifteen days till landfall was made on the 
 coast of what we now call South Carolina. There it 
 had been beached in an estuary, while the crew ad- 
 ventured inland. The land was rich enough, but the 
 tribes were not the gentle race of Battista's imagining. 
 There had been a savage struggle for mastery, till 
 the strangers made alliances and were granted terri- 
 tory between the mountains and the sea. But they 
 were only a handful and Philip was sent back for 
 further colonists and for a cargo of arms and seeds 
 and implements. 
 
 The French court was in no humour for his tale, 
 being much involved in its own wars. It may be that 
 he was not believed; anyhow he got no help from his 
 king. At his own cost and with the aid of friends he 
 fitted out his ship for the return. After that the cur- 
 tain falls. It would appear that the colony did not 
 prosper, for it is on record that Philip in the year 1521 
 was living at his house at Eaucourt, a married man, 
 occupied with books and the afFairs of his little 
 seigneury. A portrait of him still extant by an Italian 
 artist shows a deeply furrowed face and stern brows, 
 as of one who had endured much, but the eyes are 
 happy. It is believed that in his last years he was one 
 of the first of the gentlemen of Picardy to adhere to 
 ^he Reformed faith. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 
 
 THE horseman rode down the narrow vennel which 
 led to the St. Denis gate of Paris, holding his nose 
 like a fine lady. Behind him the city reeked in a close 
 August twilight. From every entry came the smell of 
 coarse cooking and unclean humanity, and the heaps 
 of garbage in the gutters sent up a fog of malodorous 
 dust when they were stirred by prowling dogs or hasty 
 passengers. 
 
 "Another week of heat and they will have the plague 
 here," he muttered. "Oh for Eaucourt — Eaucourt by 
 the waters! I have too delicate a stomach for this 
 Paris." 
 
 His thoughts ran on to the country beyond the 
 gates, the fields about St. Denis, the Clermont downs. 
 Soon he would be stretching his bay on good turf. 
 
 But the gates were closed, though it was not yet the 
 hour of curfew. The lieutenant of the watch stood 
 squarely before him with a forbidding air, while a file 
 of arquebusiers lounged in the archway. 
 
 "There's no going out to-night," was the answer to 
 the impatient rider. 
 
 "Tut, man, I am the Sieur de Laval, riding north 
 on urgent affairs. My servants left at noon. Be 
 quick. Open !" 
 
 "The keys are at the Louvre. You must seek them 
 there." The fellow grinned impudently. 
 
 "Who ordered this folly?" 
 
 130 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 131 
 
 "The Marshal Tavaaines. Go argue with him, if 
 your mightiness has the courage." 
 
 The horseman was too old a campaigner to waste 
 time in wrangling. He turned his horse's head and 
 retraced his path up the vennel. "Now what in God's 
 name is afoot to-night?" he asked himself, and the 
 bay tossed his dainty head, as if in the same perplexity. 
 He was a fine animal with the deep barrel and great 
 shoulders of the Norman breed, and no more than his 
 master did he love this place of alarums and stenches. 
 
 Gaspard de Laval was a figure conspicuous enough 
 even in that city of motley. For one thing he was 
 well over two yards high, and, though somewhat lean 
 for perfect proportions, his long arms and deep chest 
 told of no common strength. He looked more than his 
 thirty years, for his face was burned the colour of teak 
 by hot suns, and a scar just under the hair wrinkled 
 a broad low forehead. His small pointed beard was 
 bleached by weather to the hue of pale honey. He 
 wore a steel back and front over a doublet of dark 
 taffeta, and his riding cloak was blue velvet lined with 
 cherry satin. The man's habit was sombre except for 
 the shine of steel and the occasional flutter of the gay 
 lining. In his velvet bonnet he wore a white plume. 
 The rich clothing became him well, and had just a hint 
 of foreignness, as If commonly he were more roughly 
 garbed. Which was indeed the case, for he was new 
 back from the Western Seas, and had celebrated his 
 home-coming with a brave suit. 
 
 As a youth he had fought under Conde in the 
 religious wars, but had followed Jean RIbaut to 
 Florida, and had been one of the few survivors when 
 the Spaniards sacked St. Caroline. With de Gourgues 
 he had sailed west again for vengeance, and had got it. 
 Thereafter he had been with the privateers of Brest 
 
132 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and La Rochelle, a hornet to search out and sting the 
 weak places of Spain on the Main and among the 
 islands. But he was not born to live continually in 
 outland parts, loving rather to intercalate fierce 
 adventures between spells of home-keeping. The love 
 of his green Picardy manor drew him back with gentle 
 hands. He had now returned like a child to his play- 
 things, and the chief thoughts in his head were his 
 gardens and fishponds, the spinneys he had planted 
 and the new German dogs he had got for boar-hunting 
 in the forest. He looked forward to days of busy 
 idleness in his modest kingdom. 
 
 But first he must see his kinsman the Admiral about 
 certain affairs of the New World, which lay near to 
 that great man's heart. Coligny was his godfather, 
 from whom he was named; he was also his kinsman, 
 for the Admiral's wife, Charlotte de Laval, was a 
 cousin once removed. So to Chatillon Gaspard jour- 
 neyed, and thence to Paris, whither the Huguenot 
 leader had gone for the marriage fetes of the King of 
 Navarre. Reaching the city on the Friday evening, 
 he was met by ill news. That morning the Admiral's 
 life had been attempted on his way back from watching 
 the King at tennis. Happily the wounds were slight, 
 a broken right forefinger and a bullet through the left 
 forearm, but the outrage had taken away men's breath. 
 That the Admiral of France, brought to Paris for those 
 nuptials which were to be a pledge of a new peace, 
 should be the target of assassins shocked the decent 
 and alarmed the timid. The commonwealth was built 
 on the side of a volcano, and the infernal fires were 
 muttering. Friend and foe alike set the thing down 
 to the Guises' credit, and the door of Coligny's lodging 
 in the Rue de Bethisy was thronged by angry Huguenot 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 133 
 
 gentry, clamouring to be permitted to take order with 
 the Italianate murderers. 
 
 On the Saturday morning Gaspard was admitted to 
 audience with his kinsman, but found him so weak from 
 Monsieur Ambrose Fare's drastic surgery that he was 
 compelled to postpone his business. "Get you back to 
 Eaucourt," said Coligny, "and cultivate your garden 
 till I send for you. France is too crooked just now for 
 a forthright fellow like you to do her service, and I do 
 not think that the air of Paris is healthy for our 
 house." Gaspard was fain to obey, judging that the 
 Admiral spoke of some delicate state business for 
 which he was aware he had no talent. A word with 
 M. de Teligny reassured him as to the Admiral's 
 safety, for according to him the King now leaned 
 heavily against the Guises. 
 
 But lo and behold! the gates of Paris were locked 
 to him, and he found himself interned in the sweltering 
 city. 
 
 He did not like it. There was an ugly smack of 
 intrigue in the air, puzzling to a plain soldier. Nor 
 did he like the look of the streets now dim In the 
 twilight. On his way to the gates they had been 
 crammed like a barrel of salt fish, and in the throng 
 there had been as many armed men as if an enemy 
 made a leaguer beyond the walls. There had been, 
 too, a great number of sallow southern faces, as if 
 the Queen-mother had moved bodily thither a city of 
 her countrymen. But now as the dark fell the streets 
 were almost empty. The houses were packed to 
 bursting — a blur of white faces could be seen at the 
 windows, and every entry seemed to be alive with 
 silent men. But in the streets there was scarcely a 
 soul except priests, flitting from door to door, even 
 stumbling against his horse in their preoccupation. 
 
134 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Black, brown, and grey crows, they made Paris like 
 Cartagena. The man's face took a very grim set as he 
 watched these birds of ill omen. What in God's name 
 had befallen his honest France? . . . He was used 
 to danger, but this secret massing chilled even his stout 
 heart. It was like a wood he remembered in Florida 
 where every bush had held an Indian arrow, but with- 
 out sight or sound of a bowman. There was hell 
 brewing in this foul cauldron of a city. 
 
 He stabled his horse in the yard in the Rue du Coq, 
 behind the glover's house where he had lain the night 
 before. Then he set out to find supper. The first 
 tavern served his purpose. Above the door was a 
 wisp of red wool, which he knew for the Guise 
 colours. Inside he looked to find a crowd, but there 
 was but one other guest. Paris that night had business, 
 It seemed, which did not lie in the taverns. 
 
 That other guest was a man as big as himself, clad . 
 wholly in black, save for a stiff cambric ruff worn 
 rather fuller than the fashion. He was heavily booted, 
 and sat sideways on a settle with his left hand tucked 
 in his belt and a great right elbow on the board. 
 Something in his pose, half rustic, half braggart, 
 seemed familiar to Gaspard. The next second the two 
 were in each other's arms. 
 
 "Gawain Champernoun!" cried Gaspard. "When 
 I left you by the Isle of Pines I never hoped to meet 
 you again in a Paris inn? What's your errand, man. 
 In this den of thieves?',' 
 
 "Business of state," the Englishman laughed. "I 
 have been with Walsingham, her Majesty's Ambas- 
 sador, and looked to start home to-night. But your 
 city Is marvellous unwilling to part with her guests. 
 What's toward, Gaspard?" 
 
 "For me, supper," and he fell with zest to the 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 135 
 
 broiled fowl he had ordered. The other sent for an- 
 other flask of the wine of Anjou, observing that he had 
 a plaguy thirst. 
 
 "I think," said Gaspard, at last raising his eyes from 
 his food, "that Paris will be unwholesome to-night for 
 decent folk." 
 
 "There's a murrain of friars about," said Champer- 
 noun, leisurely picking his teeth. 
 
 "The place hums like a bee-hive before swarming. 
 Better get back to your Ambassador, Ga-wain. There's 
 sanctuary for you under his cloak." 
 
 The Englishman made a pellet of bread and flicked 
 it at the other's face. "I may have to box your ears, 
 old friend. Since when have I taken to shirking a 
 fracas? We were together at St. John d'UUoa, and 
 you should know me better." 
 
 "Are you armed?" was Gaspard's next question. 
 
 Champernoun patted his sword. "Also there are 
 pistols in my holsters." 
 
 "You have a horse, then?" 
 
 "Stabled within twenty yards. My rascally groom 
 carried a message to Sir Francis, and as he has been 
 gone over an hour, I fear he may have come to an 
 untimely end." 
 
 "Then it will be well this night for us two to hold 
 together. I know our Paris mob and there is nothing 
 crueller out of hell. The pistolling of the Admiral de 
 Coligny has given them a taste of blood, and they 
 may have a fancy for killing Luteranos. Two such as 
 you and I, guarding each other's backs, may see sport 
 before morning, and haply rid the world of a few 
 miscreants. What say you, camerado?" 
 
 "Good. But what account shall we give of ourselves 
 if someone questions us?" 
 
 "Why, we are Spanish esquires in the train of King 
 
136 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Philip's Mission. Our clothes are dark enough for the 
 dons' fashion, and we both speak their tongue freely. 
 Behold in me the Seiior Juan Gonzalez de Mendoza, a 
 poor knight of Castile, most earnest in the cause of 
 Holy Church." 
 
 "And I," said the Englishman with the gusto of a 
 boy in a game, "am named Rodriguez de Bobadilla. 
 I knew the hian, who is dead, and his brother owes me 
 ten crowns. . , . But if we fall in with the Spanish 
 Ambassador's gentlemen?" 
 
 "We will outface them." 
 
 "But if they detect the imposture?" 
 
 "Why, wring their necks. You are getting as 
 cautious as an apple-wife, Gawain." 
 
 "When I set out on a business I like to weigh it, that 
 I may know how much is to be charged to my own 
 wits and how much I must leave to God. To-night it 
 would appear that the Almighty must hold us very 
 tight by the hand. Well, I am ready when I have 
 drunk another cup of wine." He drew his sword and 
 lovingly fingered its edge, whistling all the while. 
 
 Gaspard went to the door and looked into the street. 
 The city was still strangely quiet. No roysterers 
 swaggered home along the pavements, no tramp of 
 cuirassiers told of the passage of a great man. But 
 again he had the sense that hot fires were glowing 
 under these cold ashes. The mist had lifted and the 
 stars were clear, and over the dark mass of the Louvre 
 a great planet burned. The air was warm and stifling, 
 and with a gesture of impatience he slammed the door. 
 By now he ought to have been drinking the cool night 
 on the downs beyond Oise. 
 
 The Englishman had called for another bottle, and 
 it was served in the empty tavern by the landlord 
 himself. As the wine was brought in the two fell to 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 137 
 
 talking Spanish, at the sound of which the man visibly 
 started. His furtive sulky face changed to a sly 
 friendliness. "Your excellencies have come to town 
 for the good work," he said, sidling and bowing. 
 
 With a more than Spanish gravity Gaspard inclined 
 his head. 
 
 "When does it start?" he asked. 
 
 "Ah, that we common folk do not know. But there 
 will be a signal. Father Antoine has promised us a 
 signal. But messieurs have not badges. Perhaps they 
 do not need them for their faces will be known. Nev- 
 ertheless for better security it might be well. . . ." 
 He stopped with the air of a huckster crying his wares. 
 
 Gaspard spoke a word to Champernoun in Spanish. 
 Then to the landlord: "We are strangers, so must 
 bow to the custom of your city. Have you a man to 
 send to the Hotel de Guise?" 
 
 "Why trouble the Duke, my lord?" was the answer. 
 "See, I will make you badges." 
 
 He tore up a napkin, and bound two white strips 
 crosswise on their left arms, and pinned a rag to their 
 bonnets. "There, messieurs, you are now wearing 
 honest colours for all to see. It is well, for presently 
 blood will be hot and eyes blind." 
 
 Gaspard flung him a piece of gold, and he bowed 
 himself out. "Bonne fortune, lordships," were his 
 parting words. " 'Twill be a great night for our 
 Lord Christ and our Lord King." 
 
 "And his lord the Devil," said Champernoun. 
 "What madness has taken your good France ? These 
 are Spanish manners, and they sicken me. Cockades 
 and signals and such-like flummery!" 
 
 The other's face had grown sober. "For certain 
 hell is afoot to-night. It is the Admiral they seek. 
 The Guisards and their reiters and a pack of 'prentices 
 
138 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 maddened by sermons. I would to God he were in 
 the Palace with the King of Navarre and the young 
 Conde." 
 
 "But he is well guarded. I heard that a hundred 
 Huguenots' swords keep watch by his house." 
 
 "Maybe. But we of the religion are too bold and 
 too trustful. We are not match for the Guises and 
 their Italian tricks. I think we will go to Coligny's 
 lodgings. Mounted, for a man on a horse has an 
 advantage if the mob are out!" 
 
 The two left the tavern, both sniffing the air as if 
 they found it tainted. The streets were filling now, 
 and men were running as if to a rendezvous, running 
 hot-foot without speech and without lights. Most 
 wore white crosses on their left sleeve. The horses 
 waited, already saddled, in stables not a furlong apart, 
 and it was the work of a minute to bridle and mount. 
 The two as if by a common impulse halted their 
 beasts at the mouth of the Rue du Coq, and listened. 
 The city was quiet on the surface, but there was a low 
 deep undercurrent of sound, like the soft purring of a 
 lion before he roars. The sky was bright with stars. 
 There was no moon, but over the Isle was a faint 
 tremulous glow. 
 
 "It is long past midnight," said Gaspard; "in a 
 little it will be dawn." 
 
 Suddenly a shot cracked out. It was so sharp a 
 sound among the mufiled noises that it stung the ear 
 like a whip-lash. It came from the dark mass of the 
 Louvre, from somewhere beyond the Grand Jardin. 
 It was followed instantly by a hubbub far down the 
 Rue St. Honore and a glare kindled where that street 
 joined the Rue d'Arbre Sec. 
 
 "That way lies the Admiral," Gaspard cried. "I 
 go to him," and he clapped spurs to his horse. 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 139 
 
 But as his beast leapt forward another sound broke 
 out, coming apparently from above their heads. It 
 was the clanging of a great bell. 
 
 There is no music so dominant as bells. Their voice 
 occupies sky as well as earth, and they overwhelm the 
 senses, so that a man's blood must keep pace with their 
 beat. They can suit every part, jangling in wild joy, 
 or copying the slow pace of sorrow, or pealing in 
 ordered rhythm, blithe but with a warning of mortality 
 in their cadence. But this bell played dance music. It 
 summoned to an infernal jig. Blood and fever were in 
 its broken fall, hate and madness and death. 
 
 Gaspard checked his plunging horse. "By God, it 
 is from St. Germains I'Auxerrois ! The Palace church. 
 The King is in it. It is a plot against our faith. They 
 have got the pick of us in their trap and would make 
 an end of us." 
 
 From every house and entry men and women and 
 priests were pouring to swell the army that pressed 
 roaring eastwards. No one heeded the two as they 
 sat their horses like rocks in the middle of a torrent. 
 
 "The Admiral is gone," said Gaspard with a sob in 
 his voice. "Our few hundred spears cannot stand 
 against the King's army. It remains for us to die 
 with him." 
 
 Champernoun was cursing steadily in a mixture of 
 English and Spanish, good mouth-filling oaths deliv- 
 ered without heat. "Die we doubtless shall, but not 
 before we have trounced this bloody rabble." 
 
 Still Gaspard did not move. "After to-night there 
 will be no gentlemen left in France, for we of the 
 religion had all the breeding." Then he laughed 
 bitterly. "I mind Ribaut's last words, when Menendez 
 slew him. 'We are of earth,' says he, 'and to earth 
 we must return, and twenty years more or less can 
 
HO THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 matter little !' That is our case to-night, old friend." 
 
 "Maybe," said the Englishman. "But why talk of 
 dying? You and I are Spanish caballeros. Walsing- 
 ham told me that the King hated that nation, and that 
 the Queen-mother loved it not, but it would appear 
 that now we are very popular in Paris." 
 
 "Nay, nay, this is no time to play the Nicodemite. 
 It is the hour for public confession. "I'm off to the 
 dead Admiral to avenge him on his assassins." 
 
 "Softly, Gaspard. You and I are old companions 
 m war, and we do not ride against a stone wall if there 
 be a gate. It was not thus that Gourgues avenged 
 Ribaut at St. John's. Let us thank God that we hold 
 a master card in this game. We are two foxes in a 
 flock of angry roosters, and by the Lord's grace we 
 will take our toll of them. Cunning, my friend. A 
 stratagem of war ! We stand outside this welter and, 
 having only the cold passion of revenge, can think 
 coolly. God's truth, man, have we fought the Indian 
 and the Spaniard for nothing? Wily is the word. 
 Are we two gentlemen, who fear God, to be worsted 
 by a rabble of Papegots and Marannes?" 
 
 It was the word "Marannes," or, as we say, "half- 
 castes," which brought conviction to Gaspard. Sud- 
 denly he saw his enemies as less formidable, as some- 
 thing contemptible — things of a lower breed, dupers 
 who might themselves be duped. 
 
 "Faith, Gawain, you are the true campaigner. Let 
 us forward, and trust to Heaven to show us a road." 
 
 They galloped down the Rue St. Honore, finding an 
 open space in the cobbles of the centre, but at the 
 turning into the Rue d'Arbre Sec they met a block. 
 A great throng with torches was coming in on the right 
 from the direction of the Bourbon and d'Alengon 
 hotels. Yet by pressing their horses with whip and 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 141 
 
 spur, and by that awe which the two tall dark cava- 
 liers inspired even in a mob which had lost its wits, 
 they managed to make their way to the entrance of the 
 Rue de Bethisy. There they came suddenly upon quiet. 
 
 The crowd was held back by mounted men who 
 made a ring around the gate of a high dark building. 
 Inside its courtyard there were cries and the rumour 
 of fighting, but out in the street there was silence. 
 Every eye was turned to the archway, which was bright 
 as day with the glare of fifty lanterns. 
 
 The two rode straight to the ring of soldiers. 
 
 "Make way," Gaspard commanded, speaking with 
 a foreign accent. 
 
 "For whom, monsieur?" one asked who seemed to 
 be of a higher standing than the rest. 
 
 "For the Ambassador of the King of Spain." 
 
 The man touched his bonnet and opened up a road 
 by striking the adjacent horses with the flat of his 
 sword, and the two rode into the ring so that they 
 faced the archway. They could see a little way inside 
 the courtyard, where the light gleamed on armour. 
 The men there were no rabble, but Guise's Swiss. 
 
 A priest came out, wearing the Jacobin habit, one 
 of those preaching friars who had been fevering the 
 blood of Paris. The crowd behind the men-at-arms 
 knew him, for even in its absorption it sent up shouts 
 of greeting. He flitted like a bat towards Gaspard 
 and Champernoun and peered up at them. His face 
 was lean and wolfish, with cruel arrogant eyes. 
 
 "Hail, father!" said Gaspard in Spanish. "How 
 goes the good work?" 
 
 He replied in the same tongue. "Bravely, my chil- 
 dren. But this is but the beginning. Are you girt and 
 ready for the harvesting?" 
 
 "We are ready," said Gaspard. His voice shook 
 
142 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 with fury, but the Jacobin took, it for enthusiasm. He 
 held up his hand in blessing and fluttered back to the 
 archway. 
 
 From inside the courtyard came the sound of some- 
 thing falling, and then a great shout. The mob had 
 jumped to a conclusion. "That is the end of old 
 Toothpick," a voice cried, using the Admiral's nick- 
 name. There was a wild surge round the horsemen, 
 but the ring held. A body of soldiers poured out of 
 the gate, with blood on their bare swords. Among 
 them was one tall fellow all in armour, with a broken 
 plume in his bonnet. His face was torn and disfigured 
 and he was laughing horribly. The Jacobin rushed to 
 embrace him, and the man dropped on his knees to 
 receive a blessing. 
 
 "Behold our hero," the friar cried. "His good 
 blade has rid us of the arch-heretic," and the mob took 
 up the shout. 
 
 Gaspard was cool now. His fury had become a cold 
 thing like a glacier. 
 
 "I know him!" he whispered to Champernoun. 
 "He is the Italian Petrucci. He is our first quarry." 
 
 "The second will be that damned friar," was the 
 Englishman's answer. 
 
 Suddenly the ring of men-at-arms drew inward as a 
 horseman rode out of the gate followed by half a 
 dozen attendants. He was a tall young man, very 
 noble to look upon, with a flushed face hke a boy warm 
 from the game of paume. His long satin coat was 
 richly embroidered, and round his neck hung the thick 
 gold collar of some Order. He was wiping a stain 
 from his sleeve with a fine lawn handkerchief. 
 
 "What is that thing gilt like a chalice?" whispered 
 Champernoun. 
 
 "Henry of Guise," said Gaspard. 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 143 
 
 The Duke caught sight of the two men in the centre 
 of the ring. The lanterns made the whole place bright 
 and he could see every detail of their dress and bearing. 
 He saluted them courteously. 
 
 "We make your Grace our compliments," said 
 Gaspard. "We are of the household of the Ambas- 
 sador of Spain, and could not rest indoors when great 
 deeds were being done in the city." 
 
 The young man smiled pleasantly. There was a 
 boyish grace in his gesture. 
 
 "You are welcome, gentlemen. I would have every 
 Catholic in Europe see with his own eyes the good 
 work of this Bartholomew's day. I would ask you to 
 ride with me, but I leave the city in pursuit of the 
 Count of Montgomery, who is rumoured to have 
 escaped. There will be much for you to see on this 
 happy Sunday. But stay ! You are not attended, and 
 our streets are none too safe for strangers. Presently 
 the Huguenots will counterfeit our white cross, and 
 blunders may be made by the overzealous." , 
 
 He unclasped the jewel which hung at the end of his 
 chain. It was a little Agnus of gold and enamel, 
 surmounting a lozenge-shaped shield charged with an 
 eagle. 
 
 "Take this," he said, "and return it to me when the 
 work is over. Show it if any man dares to question 
 you. It is a passport from Henry of Guise. . . . And 
 now forward," he cried to his followers. "Forward 
 for Montgomery and the Vidame." 
 
 The two looked after the splendid figure^ "That 
 bird is in fine feather," said Champernoun. 
 
 Gaspard's jaw was very grim. "Some day he will 
 lie huddled under the assassin's knife. He will die as 
 he has made my chief die, and his body will be cast to 
 
144 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the dog's. . . . But he has given me a plan," and he 
 spoke in his companion's ear. 
 
 The Englishman laughed. His stolidity had been 
 slow to quicken, but his eyes were now hot and he had 
 altogether ceased to swear. 
 
 "First let me get back to Walsingham's lodging. I 
 have a young kinsman there, they call him Walter 
 Raleigh, who would dearly love this venture." 
 
 "Tut, man, be serious. We play a desperate game, 
 and there is no place for boys in it. We have Guise's 
 jewel, and by the living God we will use it. My mark 
 is Petrucci." 
 
 "And the priest," said Champernoun. 
 
 The crowd in the Rue de Bethisy was thinning, as 
 bands of soldiers, each with its tail of rabble, moved 
 off to draw other coverts. There was fighting still 
 in many houses, and on the roof-tops as the pale dawn 
 spread could be seen the hunt for fugitives. Torches 
 and lanterns still flickered obscenely, and the blood in 
 the gutters shone sometimes golden in their glare and 
 sometimes spread drab and horrid in the waxing day- 
 light. 
 
 The Jacobin stood at their elbow. "Follow me, ray 
 lords of Spain," he cried. "No friends of God and 
 the Duke dare be idle this happy morn. Follow, and 
 I will show you wonders." 
 
 He led them east to where a broader street ran to 
 the river. 
 
 "Somewhere here lies Teligny," he croaked. "Once 
 he is dead the second head is lopped from the dragon 
 of Babylon. Oh that God would show us where Conde 
 and Navarre are hid, for without them our task is 
 incomplete." 
 
 There was a great crowd about the door of one 
 house, and into it the Jacobin fought his way with 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 145 
 
 prayers and threats. Some Huguenot — ^Teligny it 
 might be — ^was cornered there, but in the narrow place 
 only a few could join in the hunt, and the hunters, not 
 to be impeded by the multitude, presently set a guard 
 at the street door. The mob below was already drunk 
 with blood, arid found waiting intolerable ; but it had 
 no leader and foamed aimlessly about the causeway. 
 There were women in it, with flying hair like Msenads, 
 who shrilled obscenities, and drunken butchers and 
 watermen and grooms who had started out for loot and 
 ended in sheer lust of slaying, and dozens of broken 
 desperadoes and led-captains who looked on the day 
 as their carnival. But to the mob had come one of 
 those moments of indecision when it halted and eddied 
 like a whirlpool. 
 
 Suddenly in its midst appeared two tall horsemen. 
 
 "Men of Paris," cried Gaspard with that masterful 
 voice which is bom of the deep seas. "You see this 
 jewel. It was given me an hour back by Henry of 
 Guise." 
 
 A ruffian examined it. "Ay," he murmured with 
 reverence, "it is our Duke's. I saw it on his breast 
 before Coligny's house." 
 
 The mob was all ears. "I have the Duke's com- 
 mand," Gaspard went on. "He pursues Montgomery 
 and the Vidame of Chartres. Coligny is dead. 
 Teligny in there is about to die. But where are all 
 the others? Where is La Rochefoucault? Where is 
 Rosny? Where is Grammont? Where, above all, are 
 the young Conde and the King of Navarre?" 
 
 The names set the rabble howling. Every eye was 
 on the speaker. 
 
 Gaspard commanded silence. "I will tell you. The 
 Huguenots are cunning as foxes. They planned this 
 very day to seize the King and njake themselves mas- 
 
146 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 ters of France. They have copied your badge," and 
 he glanced towards his left arm. "Thousands of them 
 are waiting for revenge, and before it is full day they 
 will be on you. You will not know them, you will take 
 them for your friends, and you will have your throats 
 cut before you find out your error." 
 
 A crowd may be wolves one moment and chickens 
 the next, for cruelty and fear are cousins. A shiver 
 of apprehension went through the soberer part. One 
 drunkard who shouted was clubbed on the head by his 
 neighbour. Gaspard saw his chance. 
 
 "My word to you — the Duke's word — is to forestall 
 this devilry. Follow me, and strike down every band 
 of white-badged Huguenots. For among them be sure 
 is the cub of Navarre." 
 
 It was the leadership which the masterless men 
 wanted. Fifty swords were raised, and a shout went 
 up which shook the windows of that lodging where 
 even now Teligny was being done to death. With the 
 two horsemen at their head the rabble poured west- 
 wards towards the Rue d'Arbre Sec and the Louvre, 
 for there in the vicinity of the Palace were the likeliest 
 coverts. 
 
 "Now Heaven send us Petrucci," said Gaspard. 
 "Would that the Little Man had been alive and with 
 us ! This would have been a ruse after his own heart." 
 
 "I think the great Conde would have specially mis- 
 liked yon monk," said the Englishman. 
 
 "Patience, Gawain. One foe at a time. My heart 
 tells me that you will get your priest." 
 
 The streets, still dim in the dawn, were thickly car- 
 peted with dead. The mob kicked and befouled the 
 bodies, and the bravos in sheer wantonness spiked 
 them with their swords. There were women there, and 
 children, lying twisted on the causeway. Once a fugi- 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 147 
 
 tive darted out of an entry, to be brought down by a 
 butcher's axe. 
 
 "I have never seen worse in the Indies," and 
 Champernoun shivered. "My stomach turns. For 
 heaven's sake let us ride down this rabble I" 
 
 "Patience," said Gaspard, his eyes hard as stones. 
 "Cursed be he that putteth his hand to the plough and 
 then turns back." 
 
 They passed several small bodies of Catholic horse, 
 which they greeted with cheers. That was in the Rue 
 des Poulies; and at the corner where it abutted on the 
 quay before the Hotel de Bourbon, a ferret-faced man 
 ran blindly into them. Gaspard caught him and drew 
 him to his horse's side, for he recognised the landlord 
 of the tavern where he had supped. 
 
 "What news, friend?" he asked. 
 
 The man was in an anguish of terror, but he recog- 
 nised his former guest. 
 
 "There is a band on the quay," he stammered. 
 "They are mad and do not know a Catholic when 
 they see him. They would have killed me, had not 
 the good Father Antoine held them till I made off." 
 
 "Who leads them?" Gaspard' asked, having a 
 premonition. 
 
 "A tall man in crimson with a broken plume." 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 "Maybe a hundred, and at least half are men-at- 
 
 arms." 
 
 Gaspard turned to Champernoun. 
 
 "We have found our quarry," he said. 
 
 Then he spoke to his following, and noted with 
 comfort that it was now some hundred strong, and 
 numbered many swords. "There Is a Huguenot band 
 before us," he cried. "They wear our crosses, and 
 this honest fellow has barely escaped from them. They 
 
148 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 are less than three score. On them, my gallant lads, 
 before they Increase their strength, and mark specially 
 the long man in red, for he is the Devil. It may be 
 Navarre is with them." 
 
 The mob needed no second bidding. Their chance 
 had come, and they swept along with a hoarse mutter 
 more fearful than any shouting. 
 
 "Knee to knee, Gawain," said Gaspard, "as at St. 
 John d'UUoa. Remember, Petrucci is for me." 
 
 The Italian's band, crazy with drink and easy slay- 
 ing, straggled across the wide quay and had no thought 
 of danger till the two horsemen were upon them. The 
 songs died on their lips as they saw bearing down on 
 them an avenging army. The scared cries of "The 
 Huguenots!" "Montgomery!" were to Gaspard's 
 following a confirmation of their treachery. The 
 swords of the bravos and the axes and knives of the 
 Parisian mob made havoc with the civilian rabble, but 
 the men-at-arms recovered themselves and in knots 
 fought a stout battle. But the band was broken at the 
 start by the two grim horsemen who rode through it 
 as through meadow grass, their blades falling terribly, 
 and then turned and cut their way back. Yet a third 
 time they turned, and in that last mowing they found 
 their desire. A tall man in crimson appeared before 
 them. Gaspard flung his reins to Champernoun and 
 in a second was on the ground, fighting with a fury that 
 these long hours had been stifled. Before his blade the 
 Italian gave ground till he was pinned against the 
 wall of the Bourbon hotel. His eyes were staring •mth 
 amazement and dawning fear. "I am a friend," he 
 stammered in broken French and was answered in curt 
 Spanish. Presently his guard weakened and Gaspard 
 gave him the point in his heart. As he drooped to the 
 ground, his conqueror bent over him. "The Admiral 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 149 
 
 is avenged," he said. "Tell your master in hell that 
 you died at the hands of Coligny's kinsman." 
 
 Gaspard remounted, and, since the fight had now 
 gone eastward, they rode on to the main gate of the 
 Louvre, where they met a company of the royal 
 Guards coming out to discover the cause of an uproar 
 so close to the Palace. He told his tale of the Spanish 
 Embassy and showed Guise's jewel. "The streets are 
 full of Huguenots badged as Catholics. His Majesty 
 will be well advised to quiet the rabble or he will lose 
 some trusty servants." 
 
 In the Rue du Coq, now almost empty, the two 
 horsemen halted. 
 
 "We had better be journeying, Gawain. Guise's 
 jewel will open the gates. In an hour's time all Paris 
 will be on our trail." 
 
 "There is still that priest," said Champernoun 
 doggedly. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes 
 were light and daring. Like all his countrymen, he 
 was slow to kindle but slower to cool. 
 
 "In an hour, if we linger here, we shall be at his 
 mercy. Let us head for the St. Antoine gate." 
 
 The jewel made their way easy, for through that 
 gate Henry of Guise himself had passed in the small 
 hours. "Half an hour ago," the lieutenant of the 
 watch told them, "I opened to another party which 
 bore the Duke's credentials. They were for Amiens 
 to spread the good news." 
 
 "Had they a priest with them?" 
 
 "Ay, a Jacobin monk, who cried on them to hasten 
 and not spare their horses. He said there was much 
 to do in the north." 
 
 "I think the holy man spoke truth," said Gaspard, 
 and they rode into open country. 
 
 They broke their fast on black bread and a cup of 
 
150 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 wine at the first inn, where a crowd of frightened 
 countrymen were looking in the direction of Paris. It 
 was now about seven o'clock, and a faint haze, which 
 promised heat, cloaked the ground. From it rose the 
 towers and high-peaked roofs of the city, insubstantial 
 as a dream. 
 
 "Eaucourt by the waters !" sighed Gaspard. "That 
 the same land should hold that treasure and this foul 
 city!" 
 
 Their horses, rested and fed, carried them well on 
 the north road, but by ten o'clock they had over- 
 taken no travellers, save a couple of servants, on sorry 
 nags, who wore the Vidame of Amiens' livery. They 
 were well beyond Olse ere they saw in the bottom of 
 a grassy vale a little knot of men. 
 
 "I make out six," said Champemoun, who had a 
 falcon's eye. "Two priests and four men-at-arms. 
 Reasonable odds, such as I love. Faith, that monk 
 travels fast!" 
 
 "I do not think there will be much fighting," said 
 Gaspard. 
 
 Twenty minutes later they rode abreast of the party, 
 which at first had wheeled round on guard, and then 
 had resumed Its course at the sight of the white arm- 
 lets. It was as Champernoun had said. Four lusty 
 arquebusiers escorted the Jacobin. But the sixth man 
 was no priest. He was a Huguenot minister whom 
 Gaspard remembered with Conde's army, an elderly 
 frail man bound with cruel thongs to a horse's back 
 and his legs tethered beneath its belly. 
 
 Recognition awoke in the Jacobin's eye. "Ah, my 
 lords of Spain! What brings you northward?" 
 
 Gaspard was by his side, while Champernoun a pace 
 behind was abreast the minister. 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 151 
 
 "To see the completion of the good work begun this 
 morning." 
 
 "You have come the right road. I go to kindle the 
 north to a holy emulation. That heretic dog behind is 
 a Picard, and I bring him to Amiens that he may per- 
 ish there as a warning to his countrymen." 
 
 "So?" said Gaspard, and at the word the Hugue- 
 not's horse, pricked stealthily by Champernoun's 
 sword, leaped forward and dashed in fright up the 
 hill, its rider sitting stiff as a doll in his bonds. The 
 Jacobin cried out and the soldiers made as if to follow, 
 but Gaspard's voice checked them. "Let be. The 
 beast will not go far. I have matters of importance to 
 discuss with this reverend father." 
 
 The priest's face sharpened with a sudden suspicion. 
 "Your manners are somewhat peremptory, sir Span- 
 iard. But speak and let us get on." 
 
 "I have only the one word. I told you we had come 
 north to see the fruition of the good work, and you 
 approved. We do not mean the same. By good 
 work I mean that about sunrise I slew with this sword 
 the man Petrucci, who slew the Admiral. By its frui- 
 tion I mean that I have come to settle with you." 
 
 "You . . .?" the other stammered. 
 
 "I am Gaspard de Laval, a kinsman and humble 
 follower of Goligny." 
 
 The Jucobin was no coward. "Treason!" he cried. 
 "A Huguenot! Cut them down, my men," and he 
 drew a knife from beneath his robe. 
 
 But Gaspard's eye and voice checked the troopers. 
 He held in his hand the gold trinket. "I have no 
 quarrel with you. This is the passport of your leader, 
 the Duke. I show it to you, and if you are questioned 
 about this day's work you can reply that you took 
 your orders from him who carried Guise's jewel. Go 
 
152 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 your ways back to Paris if you would avoid trouble." 
 
 Two of the men seemed to waver, but the mad- 
 dened cry of the priest detained them. "They seek 
 to murder me," he screamed. "Would you desert 
 God's Church and burn in torment for ever?" He 
 hurled himself on Gaspard, who caught his wrist so 
 that the knife tinkled on the high road while the man 
 overbalanced himself and fell. The next second the 
 mellay had begun. 
 
 It did not last long. The troopers were heavy fel- 
 lows, cumbrously armed, who, even with numbers on 
 their side, stood little chance against two swift swords- 
 men, who had been trained to fight together against 
 odds. One Gaspard pulled from the saddle so that 
 he lay senseless on the ground. One Champernoun 
 felled with a sword cut of which no morion could break 
 the force. The two others turned tail and fled, and 
 the last seen of them was a dust cloud on the road to 
 Paris. 
 
 Gaspard had not drawn his sword. They stood by 
 the bridge of a little river, and he flung Guise's jewel 
 far into its lilied waters. 
 
 "A useful bauble," he smiled, "but its purpose is 
 served." 
 
 The priest stood in the dust, with furious eyes burn- 
 ing in an ashen face. 
 
 "What will you do with me ?" 
 
 "This has been your day of triumph, father. I 
 would round it off worthily by helping you to a mar- 
 tyr's crown. Gawain," and he turned to his com- 
 panion, "go up the road and fetch me the rope which 
 binds the minister." 
 
 The runaway was feeding peaceably by the high- 
 way. Champernoun cut the old man's bonds, and laid 
 
EAUCOURT BY THE WATERS 153 
 
 him fainting on the grass. He brought back with him 
 a length of stout cord. 
 
 "Let the brute live," he said. "Duck him and truss 
 him up, but don't dirty your hands with him. I'd as 
 lief kill a woman as a monk." 
 
 But Gaspard's smiling face was a rock. "This is 
 no Englishman's concern. To-day's shame is France's 
 and a Frenchman alone can judge it. Innocent blood 
 is on this man's hands, and it is for me to pay the first 
 instalment of justice. The rest I leave to God." 
 
 So when an hour later the stunned troopers recov- 
 ered their senses they found a sight which sent them to 
 their knees to patter prayers. For over the arch of 
 the bridge dangled the corpse of the Jacobin. And 
 on its breast it bore a paper setting forth that this deed 
 had been done by Gaspard de Laval, and the Latin 
 words "O si sic omnes!" 
 
 Meantime far up in the folds of the Santerre a 
 little party was moving through the hot afternoon. 
 The old Huguenot, shaken still by his rough handling, 
 rode as if in a trance. Oiice he roused himself and 
 asked about the monk. 
 
 "I hanged him like a mad dog," said Gaspard. 
 
 The minister shook his head. "Violence will not 
 cure violence." 
 
 "Nay, but justice may follow crime. I am no 
 Nicodemite. This day I have made public confession 
 of my faith, and abide the consequences. From this 
 day I am an exile from France so long as it pleases 
 God to make His Church an anvil for the blows of 
 His enemies." 
 
 "I, too, am an exile," said the old man. "If I come 
 safe to Calais I shall take ship for Holland and find 
 shelter with the brethren there. You have preserved 
 my life for a few more years in my Master's vineyard. 
 
154 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 You say truly, young sir, that God's Church is now an 
 anvil, but remember for your consolation that it is an 
 anvil which has worn out many hammers." 
 
 Late in the evening they came over a ridge and 
 looked down on a shallow valley all green and gold 
 in the last light. A slender river twined by alder and 
 willow through the meadows. Gaspard reined in his 
 horse and gazed on the place with a hand shading 
 his eyes. 
 
 "I have slain a man to my hurt," he said. "See, 
 there are my new fishponds half made, and the herb 
 garden, and the terrace that gets the morning sun. 
 There is the lawn which I called my quarter-deck, the 
 place to walk of an evening. Farewell, my little grey 
 dwelling." 
 
 Champernoun laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "We will find you the mate of it in Devon, old 
 friend," he said. 
 
 But Gaspard was not listening. "Eaucourt by the 
 waters," he repeated like the refrain of a song, and his 
 eyes were full of tears. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE HIDDEN CITY 
 
 THE two ports of the cabin were discs of scarlet, 
 that pure translucent colour which comes from 
 the reflection of sunset in leagues of still water. The 
 ship lay at anchor under the high green scarp of an 
 island, but on the side of the ports no land was visible 
 — only a circle in which sea and sky melted into the 
 quintessence of light. The air was very hot and very 
 quiet. Inside a lamp had been lit, for in those lati- 
 tudes night descend* like a thunderclap. Its yellow 
 glow joined with -the red evening to cast orange shad- 
 ows. On the wall-opposite the ports was a small stand 
 of arms, and beside it a picture of the Magdalen, 
 one of two presented to the ship by Lord Huntingdon; 
 the other had been given to the wife of the Governor 
 of Gomera in the Canaries when she sent fruit and 
 sugar to the voyagers. Underneath on a couch heaped 
 with deerskins lay the Admiral. 
 
 The fantastic light revealed every line of the man as 
 cruelly as spring sunshine. It showed a long lean face 
 cast in a high mould of pride. The jaw and cheek- 
 bones were delicate and hard; the straight nose and 
 the strong arch of t-he brows had the authority of one 
 who all his days had been used to command. But 
 age had descended on this pride, age and sickness. 
 The peaked beard was snowy white, and the crisp 
 hair had thinned from the forehead. The forehead 
 itself was high and broad, crossed with an infinity 
 of small furrows. The cheeks were sallow, with a 
 
 155 
 
156 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 patch di faint colour showing a^ if from a fever. The 
 hfeavy eyelids, were grey like a parrot's. It was the 
 face of a man ailing both in mind and body. But in 
 t-wo features youth still lingered. The lips under their 
 thatch of white moustache were full and red, and the 
 eyes, of some coltour between blue and grey, had for 
 all their sadness a perpetual flicker of quick fire. 
 
 He shivered, for he was recovering from the fifth 
 fever he had had since he left Plymau-th. The ailment 
 was influenza, and he called it a calenture. He was 
 richly dressed, as was his custom even in outlandish 
 places, and the furred robe which he drew closer 
 round his shoulders hid a doublet of fine maroon vel- 
 vet. For comfort he wore a loose collar and band 
 instead ai his usual cut ruff. He stretched out his 
 hand to the table at his elbow where lay the Latin 
 versison of his Discovery of Guiana, of which he had 
 been turning the pages., and'beside it a glass of whisky, 
 almost the last of the thirty-two gallon cask which 
 Lord Boyle had given him in Cork on his way out. 
 He replenished his glass with water from a silver 
 carafe, and sipped it, for it checked his cold rigours. 
 As he set it down he looked up to greet a man who 
 had just entered. 
 
 The new-comer was not more than forty years old, 
 but life had played havoc with his body. He was a 
 tall man like the Admiral, but he was lame of his left 
 leg, and held himself with a stoop. His left arm, too, 
 hung limp and withered by his side. The skin of his 
 face was gnarled like the bark of a tree, and seamed 
 with a white scar which drooped over the comer of 
 one eye and so narrowed it to half the size of the 
 other. He was the captain of Raleigh's flagship, the 
 Destiny, an old seafarer, who in twenty years had 
 lived a century of adventure. 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 157 
 
 "I wish you good evening, Sir Walter," he said in 
 his deep-voice. "They tell me the fever is abating." 
 
 The Admiral smiled wanly, and in his smile there 
 was still a trace of the golden charm which had once 
 won all men's hearts. 
 
 "My fever will never abate this side the grave," 
 he said. "Jasper, old friend, I would have you sit 
 with me to-night. I am like King Saul, the sport of 
 devils. Be you my David to exorcise them. I have 
 evil news. Tom Keymis is dead." 
 
 The other nodded. Tom Keymis had been dead 
 for ten days, since before they left Trinidad. He 
 was aware of the obsession of the Admiral, which 
 made the tragedy seem fresh news daily. 
 
 "Dead," said Raleigh. "I slew him by my harsh- 
 ness. I see him stumbling off to his cabin, an old 
 bent man, though younger than me. But he failed 
 me. He 'betrayed his trust. . . . Tush, what does 
 that matter? We are all dying. Old Tom has only 
 gone on a little way before the rest. And many went 
 before him." 
 
 The voice had become shrill and hard. He was 
 speaking to himself. 
 
 "The best — the very best. My brave young 
 Walter, and Cosmor and Piggot and John Talbot and 
 Ned Coffyn. . . . Ned was your kinsman, Jasper?" 
 
 "My cousin — the son of my mother's brother." 
 The man spoke, like Raleigh, in a Devon accent, with 
 the creamy slur in the voice and the sing-song fall of 
 West England. 
 
 "Ah, I remember. Your mother was Cecily Coffyn, 
 from Combas on the Moor at the back of Lustleigh. 
 A pretty girl — I mind her long ago. I would I were 
 on the Moor now, where it is always fresh and blowing. 
 . , . And your father — the big Frenchman who set- 
 
158 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 tied on one of Gawain Champernoun's manors. I 
 loved his jolly laugh. But Cecily sobered him, for 
 the Coffyns were always a grave and pious race. 
 Gawain is. dead these many years. Where is your 
 father?" 
 
 "He died in '82 with Sir Humfrey Gilbert." 
 
 Raleigh bowed his head. "He went to God with 
 brother Humfrey! Happy fate! Happy company! 
 But he left a brave son behind him, and I have lost 
 mine. Have you a boy, Jasper?" 
 
 "But the one. My wife died ten years ago come 
 Martinmas. The child is with his grandmother on 
 the Moor." 
 
 "A promising child?" 
 
 "A good lad, so far as I have observed him, and 
 that is not once a twelvemonth." 
 
 "You are a hungry old sea-dog. That was not the 
 Coffyn fashion. Ned was for ever homesick out of 
 sight of Devon. They worshipped their bleak acres 
 and their fireside pieties. Ah, but I forget. You are 
 de Laval on one side, and that is strong blood. There 
 is not much in England to vie with it. You were great 
 nobles when our Cecils were husbandmen." 
 
 He turned on a new tack. "You know that 
 Whitney and WoUaston have deserted me. They 
 would have had me turn pirate, and when I refused 
 they sailed off and left me. This morning I saw the 
 last of their topsails. Did I right?" he asked fiercely. 
 
 "In my judgment you did right." 
 
 "But why — ^why?" Raleigh demanded. "I have 
 the commission of the King of France. What hin- 
 dered me to use my remnant like hounds to cut off the 
 stragglers of the Plate Fleet? That way lies much 
 gold, and gold will buy pardon for all offences. What 
 hindered me, I say?" 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 159 
 
 "Yourself, Sir Walter." 
 
 Raleigh let his head fall back on the couch and 
 smiled bitterly. 
 
 "You say truly — ^myself. 'Tis not a question of 
 morals, mark ye. A better man than I might turn 
 pirate with a clear conscience. But for Walter 
 Raleigh it would be black sin. He has walked too 
 brazenly in all weathers to seek common ports in a 
 storm. ... It becomes not the fortune in which he 
 once lived to go journeys of picory. . . . And there is 
 another reason. I have suddenly grown desperate old. 
 I think I can still endure, but I cannot institute. My 
 action is by and over and my passion has come." 
 
 "You are a sick man," said the captain with pity 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Sick I Why, yes. But the disease goes very deep. 
 The virtue has gone out of me, old comrade. I no 
 longer hate or love, and once I loved and hated ex- 
 tremely. I am become like a frail woman for toler- 
 ance. Spain has worsted me, but I bear her no ill 
 will, though she has slain my son. Yet once I held 
 all Spaniards the devil's spawn." 
 
 "You spoke kindly of them in your History," said 
 the other, "when you praised their pa-tient virtue." 
 
 "Did I? I have forgot. Nay, I remember. 
 When I wrote that sentence I was thinking of Bferreo. 
 I loved him, though I took his city. He was a valiant 
 and liberal gentleman, and of a great heart. I mind 
 how I combated his melancholy, for he was most mel- 
 ancholic. But now I have grown like him. Perhaps 
 Sir Edward Coke was right and I have a Spanish heart. 
 I think a man cannot strive whole-heartedly with an 
 enemy unless he have much in common with him, and 
 as the strife goes on he gets liker. . . . Ah, Jasper, 
 once I had such ambitions that they made a fire all 
 
i6o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 around me. Once I was like Kit Marlowe's Tambur- 
 laine : 
 
 "'Threatening the world with high astounding terms, 
 And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.' 
 
 But now the flame has died and the ashes are cold. 
 And I would not revive them if I could. There is 
 nothing under heaven that I desire." 
 
 The seaman's face was grave and kindly. 
 
 "I think you have flown too high, Sir Walter. You 
 have aimed at the moon and forgotten the merits of 
 our earthly hills." 
 
 "True, true!" Raleigh's mien was for a moment 
 more lively. "That is a shrewd comment. After 
 three-score years I know my own heart. I have been 
 cursed with a devil of pride, Jasper. . . . Man, I 
 have never had a friend. Followers and allies and 
 companions, if you please, but no friend. Others — 
 simple folk — ^would be set singing by a May morning, 
 or a warm tavern fire, or a woman's face. I have 
 known fellows to whom the earth was so full of little 
 pleasures that after the worst clouts they rose like 
 larks from a furrow. A wise philosophy — ^but I had 
 none of it. I saw always the little pageant of man's 
 life like a child's peep-show beside the dark wastes 
 of eternity. Ah, I know weM I struggled like the rest 
 for gauds and honours, but they were only tools for my 
 ambition. For themselves I never valued them. I 
 aimed at a master-fabric, and since I have failed I have 
 now no terrestrial cover." 
 
 The night had fallen black, but the cabin windows 
 were marvellously patined by stars. Raleigh's voice 
 had sunk to the hoarse whisper of a man still fevered. 
 He let his head recline again on the skins and closed 
 his eyelids. Instantly it became the face of an old and 
 very weary man. 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY i6i 
 
 The sailor Jasper Lauval — for so he now spelled 
 his name on the rare occasions when he wrote it — 
 thought he was about to sleep and was rising to with- 
 draw, when Raleigh's eyes opened. 
 
 "Stay with me," he commanded. "Your silence 
 cheers me. If you leave me I have thoughts that 
 might set me following Tom Keymis. Kit Marlowe 
 again ! I cannot get rid of his accursed jingles. How 
 do they go? 
 
 " 'Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed 
 In one self-place; for where we are is hell, 
 And where hell is there must we ever be.' " 
 
 Lauval stretched out a cool hand and laid it on the 
 Admiral's hot forehead. He had a curiously stead- 
 fast gaze for all his drooping left eye. Raleigh caught 
 sight of the withered arm. 
 
 "Tell me of your life, Jasper. How came you by 
 such a mauling? Let the tale of it be like David's 
 harping and scatter my demons." 
 
 The seaman sat himself in a chair. "That was my 
 purpose. Sir Walter. For the tale is in some manner 
 a commentary on your late words." 
 
 "Nay, I want no moral. Let me do the moralising. 
 The tale's the thing. See, fill a glass of this Irish 
 cordial. 'Twill keep off the chill from the night air. 
 When and where did you get so woefully battered?" 
 
 " 'Twas six years back when I was with Bovill." 
 
 Raleigh whistled. "You were with Robert Bovill? 
 What in Heaven's name did one of Coffyn blood with 
 Robert? If ever man had a devil, 'twas he. I mind 
 his sullen black face and his beard in two prongs. I 
 have heard he is dead — on a Panama gibbet?" 
 
 "He is dead; but not as he lived. I was present 
 when he died. He went to God a good Christian, 
 
i62 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 praying and praising. Next day I was to follow him, 
 but I broke prison in the night with the help of an 
 Indian, and went down the coast in a stolen patache 
 to a place where thick forests lined the sea. There 
 I lay hid till my wounds healed, and by and by I was 
 picked up by a Bristol ship that had put in to water." 
 
 "But your wounds — how got you them?" 
 
 "At the hands of the priests. They would have 
 made a martyr of me, and used their engines to bend 
 my mind. Being obstinate by nature I mocked them 
 till they wearied of the play. But they left their 
 marks on this arm and leg. The scar I had got some 
 months before in a clean battle." 
 
 "Tell me all. What did Robert Bovill seek? And 
 where?" 
 
 "We sought the Mountain of God," said the seaman 
 reverently. 
 
 "I never heard o't. My own Manoa, maybe, where 
 gold is quarried like stone." 
 
 "Nay, not Manoa. The road to it Is from the 
 shore of the Mexican Gulf. There was much gold." 
 
 "You found It?" 
 
 "I found it and handled it. Enough, could we have 
 brought It off, to freight a dozen ships. Likewise 
 jewels beyond the imagining of kings." 
 
 Raleigh had raised himself on his elbow, his face 
 sharp and eager. 
 
 "I cannot doubt you, for you could not lie were It 
 to win salvation. But, heavens! man, what a tale! 
 Why did I not know of this before I broke my fortune 
 on Tom Keymis' mine?" 
 
 "I alone know of It, the others being dead." 
 
 "Who first told you of It?" 
 
 "Captain Bovill had the rumour from a dying 
 Frenchman who was landed in his last hours at Fal- 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 163 
 
 mouth. The man mentioned no names, but the tale 
 set the captain inquiring and he picked up the clue in 
 Bristol. But- 'twas in north Ireland that he had the 
 whole truth and a chart of the road." 
 
 "These charts!" sighed Raleigh. "I think the 
 fairies have the making of them, for they bewitch 
 sober men. A scrap of discoloured paper and a rag 
 of canvas; some quaint lines drawn often in a man's 
 blood, and a cross in a corner marking 'much gold.' 
 We mortals are eternally babes, and our heads are 
 turned by toys." 
 
 "This chart was no toy, and he who owned it 
 bought it with his life. Nay, Sir Walter, I am of 
 your mind. Most charts are playthings from the 
 devil. But this was In a manner of speaking sent 
 from God. Only we did not read it right. We were 
 blind men that thought only of treasure." 
 
 "It Is the common story," said Raleigh. "Go on, 
 Jasper." 
 
 "We landed in the Gulf, at the point marked. It 
 was at the mouth of a wide river so split up by sand 
 bars that no ship could enter. But by portage and 
 hard rowing we got our boats beyond the shoals and 
 found deep water. We had learned beforehand that 
 there were no Spanish posts within fifty miles, for the 
 land was barren and empty even of Indians. So for 
 ten days we rowed and poled through a flat plain, 
 sweating mightily, till we came in sight of mountains. 
 At that we looked for more comfort, for the road on 
 our chart now led away from the river up a side valley. 
 There we hoped for fruits, since it was their season, 
 and for deer; and 'twas time, for our blood was thick 
 with rotten victuals." 
 
 The man shivered, as if the recollection had still 
 terrors for him. 
 
i64 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "If ever the Almighty permitted hell on earth 'twas 
 that valley. There was no stream in it and no verdure. 
 Loathsome fleshy shrubs, the colour of mouldy 
 copper, dotted the slopes, and a wilderness of rocks 
 through which we could scarce find a road. There 
 was no living thing in it but carrion birds. And ser- 
 pents. They dwelt in every cranny of stone, and the 
 noise of them was like bees humming. We lost two 
 stout fellows from their poison. The sky was brass 
 above us and our tongues were dry sticks, and by the 
 foul vapours of the place our scanty food was cor- 
 rupted. Never have men been nearer death. I think 
 we would have retreated but for our captain, who had 
 a lion's heart. He would point out to us the track in 
 the chart running through that accursed valley, and 
 at the end the place lettered 'Mountain of God.' I 
 mind how his hand shook as he pointed, for he was as 
 sick as any. He was very gentle too, though for usual 
 a choleric man." 
 
 "Choleric, verily," said Raleigh. "It must have 
 been no common sufferings that tamed Robert Bovill. 
 How long were you in the valley?" 
 
 "The better part of three days. 'Twas like a 
 sword-cut in a great mountain plain, and on the third 
 day we came to a wall of rock which was the head 
 of it. This we scaled, how I do not know, by cracks 
 and fissures, the stronger dragging up the weaker by 
 means of the tow-rope which by the mercy of God we 
 carried with us. There we lost Francis Derrick, who 
 fell a great way and crushed his skull on a boulder. 
 You knew the man?" 
 
 "He sailed with me in '95. So that was the end 
 of Francis?" 
 
 "We were now eleven, and two of them dying. 
 Above the rocks on the plain we looked for ease, but 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 165 
 
 found none. 'Twas like the bottom of a dry sea, all 
 sand and great clefts, and in every hollow monstrous 
 crabs that scattered the sand like spindrift as they fled 
 from us. Some of the beasts we slew, and the blood 
 of them was green as ooze, and their stench like a 
 charnel house. Likewise there were everywhere fat 
 vultures that dropped so close they fanned us with their 
 wings. And in some parts there were cracks in the 
 ground through which rose the fumes of sulphur that 
 set a man's head reeling." 
 
 Raleigh shivered. "Madre de Dios, you portray 
 the very floor of hell." 
 
 "Beyond doubt the floor of hell. There was but 
 one thing that could get us across that devil's land, 
 for our bones were molten with fear. At the end 
 rose further hills, and we could see with our eyes they 
 were green. . . . Captain Bovill was like one trans- 
 figured. 'See,' he cried, 'the Mountain of God! 
 Paradise is before you, and the way to Paradise, as is 
 well known, lies through the devil's country. A little 
 longer, brave hearts, and we shall be in port.' And 
 so fierce was the spirit of that man that it lifted our 
 weary shanks and fevered bodies through another two 
 days of torment. I have no cleacr memory of those 
 hours. Assuredly we were all mad and spoke with 
 strange voices. My eyes were so gummed together 
 that I had often to tear the lids apart to see. But 
 hourly that green hill came nearer, and towards dusk 
 of the second day it hung above us. Also we found 
 sweet water, and a multitude of creeping vines bearing 
 a wholesome berry. Then as we lay down to sleep, 
 the priest came to us." 
 
 Raleigh exclaimed. "What did a priest in those 
 outlands? A Spaniard?" 
 
 "Ay. But not such as you and I have ever known 
 
i66 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 elsewhere. Papegot or no, he was a priest of the 
 Most High. He was white and dry as a bone, and his 
 eyes burned glassily. Captain Bovill, who liked not 
 the dark brothers, would have made him prisoner, for 
 he thought him a forerunner of a Spanish force, but 
 he held up a ghostly hand and all of us were struck 
 with a palsy of silence. For the man was on the very 
 edge of death. 
 
 " 'Moriturus te saluto,' he says, and then he fell to 
 babbling in Spanish, which we understood the better. 
 Food, such as we had, he would not touch, nor the 
 sweet well-water. 'I will drink no cup,' he said, 'till 
 I drink the new wine with Christ in His Father's King- 
 dom. For I have seen what mortal eyes have not 
 seen, and I have spoken with God's ministers, and am 
 anointed into a new priesthood.' 
 
 "I mind how he sat on the grass, his voice drifting 
 faint and small like a babe's crying. He told us noth- 
 ing of what he was or whence he came, for his soul was 
 possessed of a revelation. 'These be the hills of God,' 
 he cried. 'In a little you will come to a city of the 
 old kings where gold is as plentiful as sand of the sea. 
 There they sit frozen in metal waiting the judgment. 
 Yet they are already judged, and, I take it, justified, 
 for the dead men sit as warders of a greater treasure- 
 house.' 
 
 "I think that we eleven — and two of us near death — ■ 
 were already half out of the body, for weariness and 
 longing shift the mind from its moorings. I can hear 
 yet Captain Bovill asking very gently of this greater 
 treasure-house, and I can hear the priest, like one in a 
 trance, speaking high and strange. 'It is the Mountain 
 of God,' he said, 'which lies a little way further. 
 There may be seen the heavenly angels ascending and 
 descending.' " 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 167 
 
 Raleigh shook his head. "Madness, Jasper — the 
 madness begot of too much toil ... I know it . . . 
 And yet I do not know. 'Tis not for me to set limits 
 to the marvels that are hid in that western land. What 
 next, man?" 
 
 "In the small hours of the morning the priest died. 
 Likewise our two sick. We dug graves for them, and 
 the Captain bade me say prayers over them. The 
 nflne of us left were shaking with a great awe. We 
 felt lifted up in bodily strength, as if for a holy labour. 
 Captain Bovill's stout countenance wore an air of hu- 
 mility. 'We be dedicate,' he said, *to some high for- 
 tune. Let us go humbly and praise God.' The first 
 steps we took that morning we walked like men going 
 into church. Up a green valley we journeyed, where 
 every fruit grew and choirs of birds sang — ^up a crystal 
 river to a cup in the hills. And I think there was no 
 one of us but had his mind more on the angels whom 
 the priest had told of than on the golden kings." 
 
 Raleigh had raised himself from the couch, and sat 
 with both elbows on the table, staring hard at the 
 speaker. "You found them? The gold kings?" 
 
 "We found them. Before noon we came into a 
 city of tombs. Grass grew in the streets and courts, 
 and the bronze doors hung broken on their hinges. 
 But no wild things had laired there. The place was 
 clean and swept and silent. In each dwelling the roof 
 was of beaten gold, and the square pillars were covered 
 with gold plates, and where the dead sat was a wil- 
 derness of jewels. ... I tell you, all the riches that 
 Spain has drawn from all her Indies since the first 
 conquistador set foot in them would not vie with the 
 preciousness of a single one among those dead kings' 
 houses." 
 
 "And the kings?" Raleigh interjected. 
 
i68 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "They sat stiff in gold on their thrones, their bodies 
 fashioned in the likeness of men. But they had no 
 faces — only golden plates set with gems." 
 
 "What fortune! What fortune! And what did 
 you then?" 
 
 "We went mad." The seaman's voice was slow and 
 melancholy. "We, who an hour before had been filled 
 with high contemplations, went mad like common 
 bravos at the sight of plunder. No man thought of 
 the greater treasure which these gold things warded. 
 We laughed and cried like children, and tore at the 
 plated dead. ... I mind how I wrenched off one 
 jewelled face with the haft of my dagger, and a thin 
 trickle of bones fell inside. . . . And yet, as we ra- 
 vened and plundered we would fall into fits of shiv- 
 ering, for the thing was not of this world. Often a 
 man would stop and fall to weeping. But the lust of 
 gold consumed us, and presently we only sorrowed be- 
 cause we had no sumpter mules to aid its transit, and 
 had a terror of the infernal plain and valley we had 
 travelled. . . . 
 
 "Captain Bovill made camp in a mead outside the 
 city, and one of us shot a deer, so that we supped full. 
 He unfolded his purpose, which was that we should 
 pack about our persons such jewels as were the smallest 
 and most precious, and some gold likewise as an ear- 
 nest, and by striking northward through the mountains 
 seek to reach at a higher point in its course the river by 
 which we had entered from the sea. I mistrusted the 
 plan, for the chart had shown but the one way, but 
 the terror of the road we had come was strong on me 
 and I made no protest. So we packed our treasure, so 
 that each man staggered under it, and before noon left 
 the place of the kings." 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 169 
 
 "And then? Was the road desperate?" Raleigh's 
 pale eyes had the ardour of a boy's. 
 
 "Desperate beyond all telling. An escalade of 
 sheer mountains and a battling through vales choked 
 with unbelievable thorns. Yet there was water and 
 food, and the hardships were not beyond mortal en- 
 durance. 'Twas not a haunted hell like the way up. 
 Wherefore I knew it would lead us to disaster, for 
 'twas not ordained as the path in the chart had been." 
 
 Raleigh laughed. "Faith, you show your mother's 
 race. All Coffyns have in their souls the sour milk 
 of Jean Calvin." 
 
 "Judge if I speak not the truth. Bit by bit we had 
 to cast our burdens till only the jewels remained. And 
 on the seventh day, when we were in sight of the river, 
 we met a Spanish party, a convoy from their northern 
 mines. We marched loosely and blindly, and they 
 came on us unawares. We had all but reached the 
 river's brink, so had the stream for a defence on one 
 side, but before we knew they had taken us on flank 
 and rear." 
 
 "Many?" 
 
 "A matter of three score, fresh and well armed, 
 against nine weary men mortally short of powder. 
 That marked the end of our madness and we became 
 again sober Christians. Most notable was Captain 
 Bovill. 'We have seen what we have seen,' he told 
 us, as we cast up our defences under Spanish bullets, 
 'and none shall wrest the secret from us. If God 
 wills that we perish, 'twill perish too. The odds are 
 something heavier than I like, and if the worst befall 
 I trust every man to fling into the river what jewels 
 he carries sooner than let them become spoil of war. 
 For if they see such preciousness they will be fired to 
 inquiry and may haply stumble on our city. Such of 
 
170 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 us as live will some day return there. . . . ' I have 
 said we had little powder, but for half a day we with- 
 stood the assault, and time and again when the enemy 
 leapt inside our lines we beat him back. At the end, 
 when hope was gone, you would hear little splashes 
 in the waters as this man or that put his treasures into 
 eternal hiding. A Spanish sword was like to have cleft 
 my skull, but before I lost my senses I noted Captain 
 Bovill tearing the chart in shreds and using them to 
 hold down the last charges for his matchlock. He was 
 crying, too, in English that some day we would return 
 the road we had come." 
 "And you returned?" 
 
 The seaman shook his head. "Not with earthly 
 feet. Two of us they slew outright, and two more 
 died on the way coastwards. For long I was between 
 death and life, and knew little till I woke in the Almi- 
 rante's cell at Panama. . . . The rest you have heard. 
 Captain Bovill died praising God, and with him three 
 stout lads out of Somerset. I escaped and tell you' 
 the tale." 
 
 Raleigh had sunk his brow on his hands as if in 
 meditation. With a sudden motion he rose to his feet 
 and stared through the port, which was now tremulous 
 with the foreglow of the tropic dawn. He put his 
 head out and sniffed the sweet cold air. Then he 
 turned to his companion. 
 
 "You know the road back to the city?" 
 The other nodded. "I alone of men." 
 "What hinders, Jasper?" Raleigh's face was sharp 
 and eager, and his eyes had the hunger of an old hound 
 on a trail. "They are all deserting me and look but 
 to save their throats. Most are scum and have no 
 stomach for great enterprises. I can send Herbert 
 home with three shiploads of faint hearts, while you 
 
THE HIDDEN CITY 171 
 
 and I take the Destiny and steer for fortune. Ned 
 King will come — ay, and Pommerol. What hinders, 
 old friend?" 
 
 The seaman shook his head. "Not for me, Sir 
 Walter." 
 
 "Why, man, will you let that great marvel lie hid 
 till the hills crumble and bury it?" 
 
 "I will return — ^but not yet. When I have seen my 
 son a man, I go back, but I go alone." 
 
 "To the city of the gold kings?" 
 
 "Nay, to the Mount of the Angels, of which the 
 priest told." 
 
 There was silence for a minute. The light dawn 
 wind sent a surge of little waves against the ship's 
 side, so that it seemed as if the now flaming sky was 
 making its song of morning. Raleigh blew out the 
 flickering lamp, and the cabin was filled with a clear 
 green dusk like palest emerald. The air from the sea 
 flapped the pages of the book upon the table. He 
 flung off his furred gown, and stretched his long arms 
 to the ceiling. 
 
 "I think the fever has left me. . . . You said your 
 tale was a commentary on my confessions. Where- 
 fore, O Ulysses ?" 
 
 "We had the chance of immortal joys, but we for- 
 sook them for lesser things. For that we were thor- 
 oughly punished and failed even in our baseness. You, 
 too. Sir Walter, have glanced aside after gauds." 
 
 "For certain I have," and Raleigh laughed. 
 
 "Yet not for long. You have cherished most reso- 
 lutely an elect purpose and in that you cannot fail." 
 
 "I know not. I know not. I have had great dreams 
 and I have striven to walk in the light of them. But 
 most men call them will o' the wisps, Jasper. What 
 have they brought me ? I am an old sick man, penni- 
 
172 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 less and disgraced. His slobbering Majesty will give 
 me but a harsh welcome. For me the Mount of the 
 Angels is like to be a scaffold." 
 
 "Even so. A man does not return from those 
 heights. When I find my celestial hill I will lay my 
 bones there. But what matters the fate of these 
 twisted limbs or even of your comely head? All's one 
 in the end, Sir Walter. We shall not die. You have 
 lit a fire among Englishmen which will kindle a hun- 
 dred thousand hearths in a cleaner world." 
 
 Raleigh smiled, sadly yet with a kind of wistful 
 pride. 
 
 "God send it! And you?" 
 
 "I have a son of my body. That which I have 
 sowed he may reap. He or his son, or his son's son." 
 
 The morning had grown bright in the little room. 
 Of the two the Admiral now looked the younger. The 
 fresh light showed the other like a wrinkled piece of 
 driftwood. He rose stiffly and moved towards the 
 door. 
 
 "You have proved my David in good truth," said 
 Raleigh. "This night has gone far to heal me in soul 
 and body. Faith, I have a mind to breakfast. . . . 
 What a miracle is our ancient England! French sire 
 or no, Jasper, you have that slow English patience that 
 is like the patience of God." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE REGICIDE 
 
 *" I "^HERE was a sharp grue of ice in the air, as Mr. 
 -'- Nicholas Lovel climbed the rickety wooden stairs 
 to his lodgings in Chancery Lane hard by Lincoln's Inn. 
 That morning he had ridden in from his manor in 
 the Chilterns, and still wore his heavy horseman's 
 cloak and the long boots splashed with the mud of the 
 Colne fords. He had been busy all day with legal 
 matters — conveyances on which his opinion was sought, 
 for, though it was the Christmas vacation, his fame 
 among the City merchants kept him busy in term and 
 out of it. Rarely, he thought, had he known London 
 in so strange a temper. Men scarcely dared to speak 
 above their breath of public things, and eyed him fear- 
 fully — even the attorneys who licked his boots — as if 
 a careless word spoken in his presence might be their 
 ruin. For it was known that this careful lawyer stood 
 very near Cromwell, had indeed been his comrade »t 
 bed and board from Marston to Dunbar, and, though 
 no Commons man, had more weight than any ten in 
 Parliament. Mr. Lovel could not but be conscious of 
 the tension among his acquaintances, and had he missed 
 to note it there he would have found it in the streets. 
 Pride's troopers were everywhere, riding in grim 
 posses or off duty and sombrely puffing tobacco, vast, 
 silent men, lean from the wars. The citizens on the 
 causeway hurried on their errand, eager to find sanctu- 
 ary from the biting air and the menace of unknown per- 
 
 173 
 
174 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 ils. Never had London seen such a Christmastide. 
 Every man was moody and careworn, and the bell of 
 Paul's as it tolled the hours seemed a sullen prophet 
 of woe. 
 
 His servant met him on the stair. 
 
 "He is here," he said. "I waited for him in the 
 Bell Yard and brought him in secretly." 
 
 Lovel nodded, and stripped off his cloak, giving it to 
 the man. "Watch the door like a dragon, Matthew," 
 he told him. "For an hour we must be alone. For- 
 bid anyone, though it were Sir Harry himself." 
 
 The little chamber was bright with the glow of a 
 coal fire. The red curtains had been drawn and one 
 lamp lit. The single occupant sprawled in a winged 
 leather chair, his stretched-out legs in the firelight, but 
 his head and shoulders in shadow. A man entering 
 could not see the face, and Lovel, whose eyes had 
 been weakened by study, peered a second before he 
 closed the door behind him. 
 
 "I have come to you, Nick, as always when my 
 mind is in tribulation." 
 
 The speaker had a harsh voice, like a bellman's 
 which has been ruined by shouting against crowds. 
 He had got to his feet and seemed an elderly man, 
 heavy in body, with legs too short for the proportions 
 of his trunk. He wore a soldier's coat and belt, but 
 no sword. His age might have been fifty, but his face 
 was so reddened by weather that it was hard to judge. 
 The thick straight black locks had little silver in them, 
 but the hair that sprouted from a mole on the chin 
 was grey. His cheeks were full and the heavy mouth 
 was pursed like that of a man in constant painful 
 meditation. He looked at first sight a grazier from 
 the shires or some new-made squire of a moderate 
 estate. But the eyes forbade that conclusion. There 
 
THE REGICIDE 175 
 
 was something that brooded and commanded in those 
 eyes, something that might lock the jaw like iron and 
 make their possessor a hammer to break or bend the 
 world. 
 
 Mr. Lovel stirred the fire very deliberately and sat 
 himself in the second of the two winged chairs. 
 
 "The King?" he queried. "You were in two minds 
 when we last spoke on the matter. I hoped I had per- 
 suaded you. Has some new perplexity arisen?" 
 
 The other shook his big head, so that for a moment 
 he had the look of a great bull that paws the ground 
 before charging. 
 
 "I have no clearness," he said, and the words had 
 such passion behind them that they were almost a 
 groan. 
 
 Lovel lay back in his chair with his finger tips joined, 
 like a jurisconsult in the presence of a client. "Clear- 
 ness in such matters is not for us mortals," he said. 
 "You are walking dark corridors which the lamp of 
 the law does not light. You are not summoned to do 
 justice, being no judge, but to consider the well-being 
 of the State. Policy, Oliver. Policy, first and last." 
 
 The other nodded. "But policy is two-faced, and 
 I know not which to choose." 
 
 "Is it still the business of the trial?" Lovel asked 
 sharply. "We argued that a fortnight since, and I 
 thought I had convinced you. The case has not 
 changed. Let me recapitulate. Imprimis, the law of 
 England knows no court which can bring the King of 
 England before It." 
 
 "Tchut, man. Do not repeat that. Vane has been 
 clacking it in my ear. I tell you, as I told young 
 Sidney, that we are beyond courts and lawyer's quib- 
 bles, and that If England requires it I will cut off the 
 King's head with the crown on it." 
 
176 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Lovel smiled. "That is my argument. You speak 
 of a trial, but in justice there can be no trial where 
 there is neither constituted court nor valid law. If 
 you judge the King, 'tis on grounds of policy. Can 
 you defend that policy, Oliver? You yourself have 
 no clearness. Who has? Not Vane. Not Fairfax. 
 Not Whitelocke, or Widdrington, or Lenthall. 
 Certes, not your old comrade Nick Lovel." 
 
 "The Army desires it — ^notably those in it who are 
 most earnest in God's cause." 
 
 "Since when have you found a politic judgment in 
 raw soldiers? Consider, my friend. If you set the 
 King on his trial it can have but the one end. You 
 have no written law by which to judge him, so your 
 canon will be your view of the public weal, against 
 which he has most grievously offended. It is conceded. 
 Your verdict must be guilty and your sentence death. 
 Once put him on trial and you unloose a great stone 
 on a hill-side which will gather speed with every yard 
 it journeys. You will put your King to death, and in 
 whose name?" 
 
 Cromwell raised his head which he had sunk between 
 his hands. "In the name of the Commons of Parlia- 
 ment and all the good people of England." 
 
 "Folly, man. Your Commons are a disconsidered 
 rump of which already you have made a laughingstock. 
 As for your good people of England, you know well 
 that ten out of any dozen are against you. The deed 
 will be done in your own name and that of the hot- 
 heads of the Army. 'Twill be an act of war. Think 
 you that by making an end of the King you will end 
 the King's party? Nay, you will give it a martyr. 
 You will create for every woman in England a new 
 saint. You will outrage all sober folk that love order. 
 And at the very moment when you seek to lay down 
 
THE REGICIDE 177 
 
 the sword you make It the sole arbitrament. What 
 say you to that?" 
 
 "There is no need to speak of his death. What if 
 the Court depose him only?" 
 
 "You deceive yourself. Once put him on trial and 
 you must go through with it to the end. A deposed 
 king will be like a keg of gunpowder set by your hearth. 
 You cannot hide him so that he ceases to be a peril. 
 You cannot bind him to terms." 
 
 "That is naked truth," said Cromwell grimly. 
 "The man is filled with a devil of pride. When 
 Denbigh and the other lords went to him he shut the 
 door in their face. I will have no more of ruining 
 hypocritical agreements. If God's poor people are 
 to be secure we must draw his fangs and destroy his 
 power for ill. But how to do' it?" And he made a 
 gesture of despair. 
 
 "A way must be found. And let it not be that easy 
 way which will most utterly defeat your honest pur- 
 pose. The knots of the State are to be unravelled, 
 not cut with the sword." 
 
 Cromwell smiled sadly, and his long face had for 
 the moment a curious look of a puzzled child. 
 
 "I believe you to be a godly man, friend Nicholas. 
 But I fear your soul is much overlaid with worldly 
 things, and you lean too much on frail understanding. 
 I, too, am without clearness. I assent to your wisdom, 
 but I cannot think it concludes the matter. In truth, 
 we have come In this dark hour to the end of fleshly 
 reasonings. It cannot be that the great marvels which 
 the Lord has shown us can end in barrenness. His 
 glorious dispensations must have an honest fruition, 
 for His arm Is not shortened." 
 
 He rose to his feet and tightened the belt which he 
 had unbuckled. "I await a sign," he said. "Pray 
 
178 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 for me, friend, for I am a man in sore perplexity. I 
 lie o' nights at Whitehall in one of the King's rich 
 beds, but my eyes do not close. From you I have 
 got the ripeness of human wisdom, but my heart is 
 not satisfied. I am a seeker, with my ear intent to 
 hear God's command, and I doubt not that by some 
 providence He will yet show me His blessed way." 
 
 Lovel stood as if in a muse while the heavy feet 
 tramped down the staircase. He heard a whispering 
 below and then the soft closing of a door. For maybe 
 five minutes he was motionless : then he spoke to him- 
 self after the habit he had. "The danger is not over," 
 he said, "but I think policy will prevail. If only Vane 
 will cease his juridical chatter. . . . Oliver is still at 
 the cross-roads, but he inclines to the right one. ... I 
 must see to it that Hugh Peters and his crew manu- 
 facture no false providences. Thank God, if our great 
 man is one-third dreamer, he is two-thirds doer, and 
 can weigh his counsellors." 
 
 Whereupon, feeling sharp-set with the cold and the 
 day's labour, he replenished the fire with a beech fag- 
 got, resumed the riding cloak he had undone, and, after 
 giving his servant some instructions, went forth to sup 
 in a tavern. He went unattended, as was his custom. 
 The city was too sunk in depression to be unruly. 
 
 He crossed Chancery Lane and struck through the 
 narrow courts which lay between Fleet Street and 
 Holborn. His goal was Gilpin's in Fetter Lane, a 
 quiet place much in favour with those of the long robe. 
 The streets seemed curiously quiet. It was freezing 
 hard and threatening snow, so he flung a fold of his 
 cloak round his neck, muffling his ears. This dead- 
 ened his hearing, and his mind also was busy with its 
 own thoughts, so that he did not observe that soft 
 steps dogged him. At the comer of an alley he was 
 
THE REGICIDE 179 
 
 tripped up, and a heavy garment flung over his head. 
 
 He struggled to regain his feet, but an old lameness, 
 got at Naseby, impeded him. The cobbles, too, were 
 like glass, and he fell again, this time backward. His 
 head struck the ground, and though he did not lose 
 consciousness, his senses were dazed. He felt his legs 
 and arms being deftly tied, and yards of some soft stuff 
 enveloping his head. He ceased to struggle as soon 
 as he felt the odds against him, and waited on fortune. 
 Voices came to his ears, and it seemed that one of them 
 was a woman's. 
 
 The crack on the causeway must have been harder 
 than it appeared, for Mr. Lovel fell into a doze. 
 When he woke he had some trouble in collecting his 
 wits. He felt no bodily discomfort except a little sore- 
 ness at the back of his scalp. His captors had trussed 
 him tenderly, for his bonds did not hurt, though a 
 few experiments convinced him that they were suffi- 
 ciently secure. His chief grievance was a sharp recol- 
 lection that he had not supped; but, being a philoso- 
 pher, he reflected that, though hungry, he was warmt 
 He was in a glass coach driven rapidly on a rough road, 
 and outside the weather seemed to be wild, for the 
 snow was crusted on the window. There were riders 
 in attendance; he could hear the click-clack of ridden 
 horses. Sometimes a lantern flashed on the pane, and 
 a face peered dimly through the frost. It seemed a 
 face that he had seen before. 
 
 Presently Mr. Lovel began to consider his position. 
 Clearly he had been kidnapped, but by whom and to 
 what intent? He reflected with pain that it might be 
 his son's doing, for that gentleman had long been for- 
 bidden his door. A rakehell of the Temple and mar- 
 ried to a cast-off mistress of Goring's, his son was 
 certainly capable of any evil, but he reminded himself 
 
i8o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 that Jasper was not a fool and would scarcely see his 
 profit in such an escapade.- Besides, he had not the 
 funds to compass an enterprise which must have cost 
 money. He thought of the King's party, and dis- 
 missed the thought. His opponents had a certain re- 
 ga,rd for him, and he had the name of moderate. No, 
 if politics touched the business, it was Ireton's doing. 
 Ireton feared his influence with Cromwell. But that 
 sober man of God was no bravo. He confessed him- 
 self at a loss. 
 
 Mr. Lovel had reached this point in his meditations 
 when the coach suddenly stopped. The door opened, 
 and as he peered into the semicircle of wavering lamp- 
 light he observed a tall young lady in a riding coat 
 white with snowflakes. She had dismounted from her 
 horse, and the beast's smoking nostrils were thawing 
 the ice on her sleeve. She wore a mask, but she did 
 not deceive her father. 
 
 "Cecily," he cried, astounded out of his calm. 
 "What madcap trick is this?" 
 
 The girl for answer flung her bridle to a servant 
 and climbed into the coach beside him. Once more 
 the wheels moved. 
 
 "Oh, father, dearest father, pray forgive me. I 
 have been so anxious. When you fell I begged Tony 
 to give up the plan, but he assured me you had taken 
 no hurt. Tell me you are none the worse." 
 
 Mr. Lovel began to laugh, and there was relief in 
 his laugh, for he had been more disquieted than he 
 would have confessed. 
 
 "I am very greatly the worse." He nodded to his 
 bonds. "I do not like your endearments, Cis." 
 
 "Promise me not to try to escape, and I will cut 
 them." The girl was very grave as she drew from a 
 a-etioile bejaeath her cloak a pair of housewife's scissors. 
 
THE REGICIDE 181 
 
 Mr. Lovel laughed louder. "I promise to bide 
 where I am in this foul weather." 
 
 Neatly and swiftly she cut the cords and he stretched 
 arms and legs in growing comfort. 
 
 "Also I have not supped." 
 
 "My poor father ! But in two hours' time you will 
 have supper. We sleep at — ^but that I must not say." 
 
 "Where does this journey end? Am I to have no 
 news at all, my dear?" 
 
 "You promised, remember, so I will tell you. Tony 
 and I are taking you to Chastlecote." 
 
 Mr. Lovel whistled. "A long road and an ill. 
 The wind blows bitter on Cotswold in December. I 
 would be happier in my own house." 
 
 "But not safe." The girl's voice was very earnest. 
 "Believe me, dearest father, we have thought only of 
 you. Tony says that London streets will soon be run- 
 ning blood. He has it from secret and sure sources. 
 There is a King's faction in the Army and already it 
 is in league with the Scots and our own party to com- 
 pass the fall of Cromwell. He says it will be rough 
 work and the innocent will die with the guilty. . . . 
 When he told me that, I feared for your life — and 
 Tony, too, for he loves you. So we carry you to 
 Chastlecote till January is past, for by then Tony says 
 there will be peace In England." 
 
 "I thank you, Cis, — and Tony also, who loves me. 
 But if your news be right, I have a duty to do. I am 
 of Cromwell's party, as you and Tony are of the 
 King's. You would not have me run from danger." 
 
 She primmed her pretty mouth. "You do not run, 
 you are carried off. Remember your promise." 
 
 "But a promise given under duress is not valid in 
 law." 
 
 "You are a gentleman, sir, before you are a lawyer. 
 
i82 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Besides, there are six of Tony's men with us — and 
 all armed. 
 
 Mr. Lovel subsided with a chuckle. This daughter 
 of his should have been a man. Would that Heaven 
 had seen fit to grant him such a son ! 
 
 "Two hours to supper," was what he said. "By 
 the slow pace of our cattle I judge we are on Denham 
 hill. Permit me to doze, my dear. 'Tis the best 
 antidote to hunger. Whew, but it is cold! If you 
 catch a quinsy, blame that foolish Tony of yours." 
 
 But, though he closed his eyes, he did not sleep. 
 All his life he had been something of a fatalist, and 
 this temper had endeared him to Cromwell, who held 
 that no man travelled so far as he who did not know 
 the road he was going. But while in Oliver's case 
 the belief came from an ever-present sense of a direct- 
 ing God, in him it was more of a pagan philosophy. 
 Mr. Lovel was devout after his fashion, but he had 
 a critical mind and stood a little apart from enthusiasm. 
 He saw man's life as a thing foreordained, yet to be 
 conducted under a pretence of freedom, and while a 
 defender of liberty his admiration inclined more natu- 
 rally to the rigour of law. He would oppose all mun- 
 dane tyrannies, but bow to the celestial bondage. 
 
 Now it seemed that fate had taken charge of him 
 through the medium of two green lovers. He was 
 to be spared the toil of decision and dwell in an en- 
 forced seclusion. He was not averse to it. He was 
 not Cromwell with Cromwell's heavy burden; he was 
 not even a Parliament man ; only a private citizen who 
 wished greatly for peace. He had laboured for 
 peace both in field and council, and that very evening 
 he had striven to guide the ruler of England. As- 
 suredly he had done a citizen's duty and might now 
 rest. 
 
THE REGICIDE 183 
 
 His thoughts turned to his family — the brave girl 
 and the worthless boy. He believed he had expunged 
 Jasper from his mind, but the recollection had still 
 power to pain him. That was the stuff of which the 
 King's faction was made, half-witted rakes who were 
 arrogant without pride and volcanic without courage. 
 . . . Not all, perhaps. The good Tony was a wel- 
 come enough son-in-law, though Cecily would always 
 be the better man. The young Oxfordshire squire 
 was true to his own royalties, and a mortal could be 
 no more. He liked the flaxen poll of him, which con- 
 trasted well with Cecily's dark beauty — and his jolly 
 laugh and the noble carriage of his head. Yet what 
 wisdom did that head contain which could benefit the 
 realm of England? 
 
 This story of a new plot! Mr. Lovel did not reject 
 it. It was of a piece with a dozen crazy devices of 
 the King. The man was no Englishman, but an 
 Italian priest who loved dark ways. A little good 
 sense, a little honesty, and long ago there would have 
 been a settlement. But to treat with Charles was to 
 lay foundations on rotten peat. 
 
 Oddly enough, now that he was perforce quit of 
 any share in the business, he found his wrath rising 
 against the King. A few hours back he had spoken 
 for him. Had he after all been wrong? He won- 
 dered. Oliver's puzzled face rose before him. He 
 had learned to revere that strange man's perplexities. 
 No brain was keener to grasp an argument, for the 
 general was as quick at a legal point as any lawyer. 
 When, therefore, he still hesitated before what seemed 
 a final case, it was well to search for 'hidden flaws. 
 Above all when he gave no reason it was wise to listen 
 to him, for often his mind flew ahead of logic, and at 
 such times he was inspired. Lovel himself and Vane 
 
i84 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and Fairfax had put the politic plea which seemed un- 
 answerable, and yet Oliver halted and asked for a 
 sign. Was it possible that the other course, the wild 
 course, Ireton's course, was the right one? 
 
 Mr. Lovel had bowed to fate and his captors, and, 
 conscious that no action could follow on any conclu- 
 sion he might reach, felt free to indulge his thoughts. 
 He discovered these growing sterner. He reviewed 
 his argument against the King's trial. Its gravamen 
 lay in the certainty that trial meant death. The plea 
 against death was that it would antagonise three- 
 fourths of England, and make a martyr out of a fool. 
 Would it do no more? Were there no gains to set 
 against that loss? To his surprise he found himself 
 confessing a gain. 
 
 He had suddenly become impatient with folly. It 
 was Cromwell's mood, as one who, living under the 
 eye of God, scorned the vapourings of pedestalled 
 mortals. Mr. Lovel by a different road reached the 
 same goal. An abiding sense of fate ordering the 
 universe made him intolerant of trivial claims of pre- 
 rogative and blood. Kingship for him had no sanctity 
 save in so far as it was truly kingly. Were honest 
 folk to be harried because of the whims of a man 
 whose remote ancestor had been a fortunate bandit? 
 Charles had time and again broke faith with his people 
 and soaked the land in blood. In law he could do no 
 wrong, but, unless God slept, punishment should fol- 
 low crime, and if the law gave no aid the law must 
 be dispensed with. Man was not made for it, but it 
 for man. 
 
 The jurist in him pulled up with a start. He was 
 arguing against all his training. . . . But was the plea 
 false? He had urged on Cromwell that the matter 
 was one of policy. Agreed. But which was the 
 
THE REGICIDE 185 
 
 politic road? If the King lost his head, there would 
 beyond doubt be a sullen struggle ahead. Sooner or 
 later the regicides would fall — of that he had no doubt. 
 But what of the ultimate fate of England? They 
 would have struck a blow against privilege which would 
 never be forgotten. In future all kings would walk 
 warily. In time the plain man might come to his own» 
 In the long run was not this politic? 
 
 " 'Tis a good thing my mouth is shut for some 
 weeks," he told himself. "I am coming round to 
 Ireton. I am no fit company for Oliver." 
 
 He mused a little on his inconstancy. It had not 
 been a frequent occurrence in his life. But now he 
 seemed to have got a sudden illumination, such as vis- 
 ited Cromwell in his prayers. He realised how it 
 had come about. Hitherto he had ridden his thoughts 
 unconsciously on the curb of caution, for a conclusion 
 reached meant deeds to follow. But, with the possi- 
 bility of deeds removed, his mind had been freed. 
 What had been cloudy before now showed very bright, 
 and the little lamp of reason he had once used was put 
 out by an intolerable sunlight. He felt himself quick- 
 ened to an unwonted poetry. . . . His whole outlook 
 had changed, but the change brought no impulse to 
 action. He submitted to be idle, since it was so fated. 
 He was rather glad of it, for he felt weary and giddy 
 in mind. 
 
 But the new thoughts once awakened ranged on 
 their courses. To destroy the false kingship would 
 open the way for the true. He was no leveller; he 
 believed in kings who were kings in deed. The world 
 could not do without its leaders. Oliver was such a 
 one, and others would rise up. Why reverence a bro- 
 caded puppet larded by a priest with oil, when there 
 were men who needed no robes or sacring to make 
 
i86 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 them kingly? Teach the Lord's Anointed his mor- 
 tality, and there would be hope in the years to come 
 of a true anointing. 
 
 He turned to his daughter. 
 
 "I believe your night's work, Cis, has been a for- 
 tunate thing for our family." 
 
 She smiled and patted his hand, and at the moment 
 with a great jolting the coach pulled up. Presently 
 lanterns showed at the window, the door was opened, 
 and Sir Anthony Colledge stood revealed in the driving 
 snow. In the Chilterns it must have been falling for 
 hours, for the road was a foot deep, and the wind had 
 made great drifts among the beech boles. The lover 
 looked somewhat sheepish as he swept a bow to his 
 prisoner. 
 
 "You are a noted horse-doctor, sir," he said. "The 
 off leader has gotten a colic. Will you treat him? 
 Then I purpose to leave him with a servant in some 
 near-by farm, and put a ridden horse in his place." 
 
 Mr. Lovel leaped from the coach as nimbly as his 
 old wound permitted. It was true that the doctoring 
 of horses was his hobby. He loved them and had a 
 way with them. . — - 
 
 The medicine box was got out of the locker and 
 the party grouped round the grey Flemish horses, 
 which stood smoking in the yellow slush. The one 
 with the colic had its legs stretched wide: its flanks 
 heaved and spasms shook its hindquarters. Mr. Lovel 
 set to work and mixed a dose of spiced oil and spirits, 
 which he coaxed down its throat. Then he very gently 
 massaged certain corded sinews in its belly. "Get 
 him under cover now, Tony," he said, "and tell your 
 man to bed him warm and give him a bucket of hot 
 water strained from oatmeal and laced with this phial. 
 In an hour he will be easy." 
 
THE REGICIDE 187 
 
 The beast was led ofF, another put in its place, and 
 the postilions were cracking their whips, when out of 
 the darkness a knot of mounted men rode into the 
 lamplight. There were at least a dozen of them, and 
 at their head rode a man who at the sight of Lovel 
 pulled up sharp. 
 
 "Mr. Lovel!" he cried. "What brings you into 
 these wilds in such weather? Can I be of service? 
 My house is not a mile off." 
 
 "I thank you. Colonel Flowerdue, but I think the 
 mischief is now righted. I go on a journey into Ox- 
 fordshire with my daughter, and the snow has delayed 
 
 us." 
 
 He presented the young Parliament soldier, a 
 cousin of Fairfax, to Cecily and Tony, the latter of 
 whom eyed with disfavour the posse of grave Ironside 
 troopers. 
 
 "You will never get to Wendover this night," said 
 Flowerdue. "The road higher up Is smothered four 
 feet deep. See, I will show you a woodland road 
 which the wind has kept clear, and I protest that your 
 company sleep the night with me at Downing." 
 
 He would take no denial, and indeed in the face 
 of his news to proceed would have been folly. Even 
 Sir Anthony Colledge confessed it wryly. One of 
 Flowerdue's men mounted to the postilion's place, and 
 the coach was guided through a belt of beeches, and 
 over a strip of heath to the gates of a park. 
 
 Cecily seized her father's hand. "You have prom- 
 ised, remember." 
 
 "I have promised," he replied. "To-morrow, if 
 the weather clears, I will go with you to Chastlecote." 
 
 He spoke no more till they were at the house door, 
 for the sense of fate hung over him like a cloud. His 
 cool equable soul was stirred to Its depths. There 
 
i88 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 was surely a grim fore-ordering in this chain of inci- 
 dents. But for the horse's colic there would have 
 been no halt. But for his skill in horse doctoring the 
 sick beast would have been cut loose, and Colonel 
 Flowerdue's party would have met only a coach 
 labouring through the snow and would not have halted 
 to discover its occupants. . . . He was a prisoner 
 bound by a promise, but this meeting with Flowerdue 
 had opened up a channel to communicate with London, 
 and that was not forbidden. It flashed on him sud- 
 denly that the change of mind which he had suffered 
 was no longer a private matter. He had now the 
 power to act upon it. 
 
 He was extraordinarily averse to the prospect. 
 Was it mere petulance that had swung round his opin- 
 ions so violently during the journey? He examined 
 himself and found his new convictions unshaken. It 
 was what the hot-gospellers would call a "Holy Ghost 
 conversion." Well, let it rest there. Why spread 
 the news beyond his own bosom? There were doc- 
 tors enough inspecting the health of the State. Let 
 his part be to stand aside. 
 
 With something like fear he recognised that that 
 part was no longer possible. He had been too directly 
 guided by destiny to refuse the last stage. Cromwell 
 was waiting on a providence, and of that providence 
 it was clear that fate had made him the channel. In 
 the coach he had surrendered himself willingly to an 
 unseen direction; and now he dared not refuse the 
 same docility. He, who for usual was ripe, balanced, 
 mellow in judgment, felt at the moment the gloomy 
 impulsion of the fanatic. He was only a pipe for the 
 Almighty to sound through. 
 
 In the hall at Downing the logs were stirred to a 
 
THE REGICIDE 189 
 
 blaze, and food and drink brought in a hospitable 
 stir. 
 
 "I have a letter to write before I sleep," Mr. Lovel 
 told his daughter. "I will pray from Colonel Flower- 
 due the use of his cabinet." 
 
 Cecily looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed. 
 
 "The posts at Chastlecote are infrequent, Cis, and I 
 may well take the chance when it offers. I assure you 
 I look forward happily to a month of idleness stalking 
 Tony's mallards and following Tony's hounds." 
 
 In the cabinet he wrote half a dozen lines setting 
 x)ut simply the change in his views. "If I know 
 Oliver," he told himself, "I have given him the sign 
 he seeks. I am clear it is God's will, but Heaven 
 help the land — Heaven help us all." Having written, 
 he lay back in his chair and mused. 
 
 When Colonel Flowerdue entered he found a brisk 
 and smiling gentleman, sealing a letter. 
 
 "Can you spare a man to ride express with this 
 missive to town? It is for General Cromwell's pri- 
 vate hand." 
 
 "Assuredly. He will start at once lest the storm 
 worsens. It is business of State?" 
 
 "High business of State, and I think the last I am 
 likely to meddle with." 
 
 Mr. Lovel had taken from his finger a thick gold 
 ring carved with a much-worn cognisance. He held 
 it up in the light of the candle. 
 
 "This thing was once a king's," he said. "As the 
 letter touches the affairs of his Majesty, I think it 
 fitting to seal it with a king's signet." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MARPLOT 
 
 A T a little after six o'clock on the evening of Satur- 
 -t*- day, 1 2th October, in the year 1678, the man 
 known commonly as Edward Copshaw came to a halt 
 opposite the narrow entry of the Savoy, just west of 
 the Queen's palace of Somerset House. He was a per- 
 sonage of many names. In the register of the Bene- 
 dictine lay-brothers he had been entered as James 
 Singleton. Sundry Paris tradesmen had known him 
 as Captain Edwards, and at the moment were longing 
 to know more of him. In a certain secret and tortuous 
 correspondence he figured as Octavius, and you may 
 still read his sprawling script in the Record Office. 
 His true name, which was Nicholas Lovel, was known 
 at Weld House, at the White Horse Tavern, and the 
 town lodgings of my lords Powis and Bellasis, but 
 had you asked for him by that name at these quarters 
 you would have been met by a denial of all knowledge. 
 For it was a name which for good reasons he and his 
 patrons desired to have forgotten. 
 
 He was a man of not yet forty, furtive, ill-looking, 
 and Iea^l to emaciation. In complexion he was as 
 swarthy as the King, and his feverish black eyes were 
 set deep under his bushy brows. A badly dressed 
 peruke concealed his hair. His clothes were the rem- 
 nants of old finery, well cut and of good stuff, but 
 patched and threadbare. He wore a sword, and car^- 
 ried a stout rustic staff. The weather was warm for 
 
 190 
 
THE MARPLOT 191 
 
 October, and the man had been walking fast, for, as 
 he peered through the autumn brume into the dark 
 entry, he mopped his face with a dirty handkerchief. 
 
 The exercise had brought back his ailment and he 
 shivered violently. Punctually as autumn came round 
 he had these fevers, the legacy of a year once spent in 
 the Pisan marshes. He had doped himself with 
 Jesuits' powder got from a woman of Madame Car- 
 well's, so that he was half deaf and blind. Yet in 
 spite of the drug the fever went on burning. 
 
 But to anyone looking close It would have seemed 
 that he had more to trouble him than a malarial bout. 
 The man was patently in an extreme terror. His 
 lantern-jaw hung as loose as if it had been broken. 
 His lips moved incessantly. He gripped savagely at 
 his staff, and next moment dropped it. He fussed 
 with the hilt of his sword. . . . He was a coward, 
 and yet had come out to do murder. 
 
 It had taken real panic to bring him to the point. 
 Throughout his tattered life he had run many risks, 
 but never a peril so Instant as this. As he had fol- 
 lowed his quarry that afternoon his mind had been full 
 of broken memories. Bitter thoughts they were, for 
 luck had not been kind to him. A childhood in cheap 
 lodgings In London and a dozen French towns, wher- 
 ever there was a gaming-table and pigeons for his 
 father to pluck. Then drunken father and draggle- 
 tailed mother had faded from the scene, and the boy 
 had been left to a life of odd jobs and fleeting patrons. 
 His name was against him, for long before he reached 
 manhood the King had come back to his own, and his 
 grandfather's bones had jangled on a Tyburn gibbet. 
 There was no hope for one of his family, though 
 Heaven knew his father had been a stout enough Roy- 
 alist. At eighteen the boy had joined the Roman 
 
192 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Church, and at twenty relapsed to the fold of Canter- 
 bury. But his bread-and-butter lay with Rome, and 
 in his trade few questions were asked about creed, 
 provided the' work were done. He had had streajcs of 
 fortune, for there had been times when he lay soft 
 and ate delicately and scattered money. But nothing 
 lasted. He had no sooner made purchase with a great 
 man and climbed a little than the scaffolding fell 
 from his feet. He thought meanly of human nature, 
 for in his profession he must cringe or snarl, always 
 the undermost dog. Yet he had some liking for the 
 priests, who had been kind to him, and there was al- 
 ways a glow in his heart for the pale wife who dwelt 
 with his child in the attic in Billingsgate. Under hap- 
 pier circumstances Mr. Nicholas Lovel might have 
 shone with the domestic virtues. 
 
 Business had been good of late, if that could ever 
 be called good which was undertaken under perpetual 
 fear. He had been given orders which took him into 
 Whig circles, and had made progress among the group 
 of the King's Head Tavern. He had even won an 
 entrance into my Lord Shaftesbury's great house in 
 Aldersgate Street. He was there under false colours, 
 being a spy of the other camp, but something In him 
 found itself at home among the patriots. A resolve 
 had been growing to cut loose from his old employers 
 and settle down among the Whigs in comparative hon- 
 esty. It was the winning cause, he thought, and he 
 longed to get his head out of the kennels. ... But 
 that had happened yesterday which scattered his fine 
 dreams and brought him face to face with terror. 
 God's curse on that ferrety Justice, Sir Edmund Berry 
 Godfrey. 
 
 He had for some time had his eye on the man. The 
 year before he had run across him in Montpelier, being 
 
THE MARPLOT 193 
 
 then engaged in a very crooked business, and had 
 fancied that the magistrate had also his eye on him. 
 Taught by long experience to watch potential enemies, 
 he had taken some trouble over the lean high-beaked 
 dignitary. Presently he had found out curious things. 
 The austere Protestant was a friend of the Duke's 
 man, Ned Coleman, and used to meet him at Colonel 
 Weldon's house. This hinted at blackmailable stuff 
 in the magistrate, so Lovel took to haunting his prem- 
 ises In Hartshorn Lane by Charing Cross, but found 
 no evidence which pointed to anything but a prosperous 
 trade in wood and sea-coal. Faggots, but not the 
 treasonable kind! Try as he might, he could get no 
 farther with that pillar of the magistracy, my Lord 
 Danby's friend, the beloved of Aldermen. He hated 
 his solemn face, his prim mouth, his condescending 
 stoop. Such a man was encased In proof armour of 
 public esteem, and he heeded Mr. Lovel no more than 
 the rats in the gutter. 
 
 But the day before had come a rude awakening. 
 All this talk of a Popish plot, discovered by the Sala- 
 manca Doctor, promised a good harvest to Mr. Lovel. 
 He himself had much to tell and more to invent. 
 Could he but manage it discreetly, he might assure his 
 fortune with the Whigs and get to his feet at last. 
 God knew It was time, for the household in the Billings- 
 gate attic was pretty threadbare. His busy brain had 
 worked happily on the plan. He would be the Innocent, 
 cursed from childhood with undeslred companions, who 
 would suddenly awaken In horror to the guilt of things 
 he had not understood. There would be a welcome 
 for a well-informed penitent. . . . But he must move 
 slowly and at his own time. . . . And now he was 
 being himself hustled into the dock, perhaps soon to 
 the gallows. 
 
194 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 For the afternoon before he had been sent for by 
 Godfrey and most searchingly examined. He had 
 thought himself the spy, when all the while he had 
 been the spied upon. The accursed Justice knew 
 everything. He knew a dozen episodes each enough 
 to hang a poor man. He knew of Mr. Lovel's deal- 
 ings with the Jesuits Walsh and Phayre, and of a 
 certain little hovel in Battersea whose annals were not 
 for the public ear. Above all, he knew of the great 
 Jesuit consult in April at the Duke of York's house. 
 That would have mattered little — indeed the revelation 
 of it was part of Mr. Lovel's plans — ^but he knew Mr. 
 Lovel's precise connection with it, and had damning 
 evidence to boot. The spy shivered when he remem- 
 bered the scene in Hartshorn Lane. He had blundered 
 and stuttered and confessed his alarm by his confusion, 
 while the Justice recited what he had fondly believed 
 was known only to the Almighty and some few whose 
 mortal interest it was to be silent. ... He had been 
 amazed that he had not been there and then committed 
 to Newgate. He had not gone home that night, but 
 wandered the streets and slept cold under a Maryle- 
 bone hedge. At first he had thought of flight, but the 
 recollection of his household detained him. He would 
 not go under. One pompous fool alone stood between 
 him and safety — ^perhaps fortune. Long before morn- 
 ing he had resolved that Godfrey should die. 
 
 He had .expected a difficult task, but lo! it was 
 unbelievably easy. About ten o'clock that day he had 
 found Sir Edmund in the Strand. He walked hurriedly 
 as if on urgent business, and Lovel had followed him 
 up through Covent Garden, across the Oxford road, 
 and into the Marylebone fields. There the magistrate's 
 pace had slackened, and he had loitered like a truant 
 schoolboy among the furze and briars. His stoop had 
 
THE MARPLOT 195 
 
 deepened, his head was sunk on his breast, his hands 
 twined behind him. 
 
 Now was the chance for the murderer lurking in the 
 brambles. It would be easy to slip behind and give 
 him the sword-point. But Mr. Lovel tarried. It may 
 have been compunction, but more likely it was fear. 
 It was also curiosity, for the magistrate's face, as he 
 passed Lovel's hiding-place, was distraught and mel- 
 ancholy. Here was another man with bitter thoughts 
 — ^perhaps with a deadly secret. For a moment the spy 
 felt a certain kinship. 
 
 Whatever the reason he let the morning go by. 
 About two in the afternoon Godfrey left the fields 
 and struck westward by a bridle-path that led through 
 the Paddington Woods to the marshes north of 
 Kensington. He walked slowly, but with an apparent 
 purpose. Lovel stopped for a moment at the White 
 House, a dirty little hedge tavern, to swallow a 
 mouthful of ale, and tell a convincing lie to John 
 Rawson, the innkeeper, in case it should come In handy 
 some day. Then occurred a diversion. Young Mr. 
 Forset's harriers swept past, a dozen riders attended 
 by a ragged foot following. They checked by the 
 path, and in the confusion of the halt Godfrey seemed 
 to vanish. It was not till close on Paddington village 
 that Mr. Lovel picked him up again. He was waiting 
 for the darkness, for he knew that he could never do 
 what he purposed In cold daylight. He hoped that the 
 magistrate would make for Kensington, for that was a 
 lonely path. 
 
 But Sir Edmund seemed to be possessed of a freakish 
 devil. No sooner was he In Paddington than, after 
 buying a glass of milk from a milk-woman, he set off 
 citywards again by the Oxford road. Here there were 
 many people, foot travellers and coaches, and Mr. 
 
196 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Lovel began to fear for his chance. But at Tyburn 
 Godfrey struck into the fields and presently was in the 
 narrow lane called St. Martin's Hedges, which led to 
 Charing Cross. Now was the occasion. The dusk was 
 falling, and a light mist was creeping up from West- 
 minster. Lovel quickened his steps, for the ma^strate 
 was striding at a round pace. Then came mischance. 
 First one, then another of the Marylebone cow-keepers 
 blocked the lane with their driven beasts. The place 
 became as public as Bartholomew's Fair. Before he 
 knew it he was at Charing Cross. 
 
 He was now in a foul temper. He cursed his weak- 
 ness in the morning, when fate had given him every 
 opportunity. He was in despair too. His case was 
 hopeless unless he struck soon. If Godfrey returned 
 to Hartshorn Lane he himself would be in Newgate 
 on the morrow. . , . Fortunately the strange man did 
 not seem to want to go home. He moved east along 
 the Strand, Lovel a dozen yards behind him. 
 
 Out from the dark Savoy entry ran a woman, 
 screaming, and with her hair flying. She seized on 
 Godfrey and clutched his knees. There was a bloody 
 fray inside, in which her husband fought against odds. 
 The watch was not to be found. Would he, the great 
 magistrate, intervene? The very sight of his famous 
 face would quell riot. 
 
 Sir Edmund looked up and down the street, pinched 
 his chin and peered down the precipitous Savoy cause- 
 way. Whatever the burden on his soul he did not 
 forget his duty. 
 
 "Show me," he said, and followed her Into the 
 gloom. 
 
 Lovel outside stood for a second hesitating. His 
 chance had come. His foe had gone of his own will 
 into the place in all England where murder could be' 
 
THE MARPLOT 197 
 
 most safely 3one. But now that the moment had come 
 at last, he was all of a tremble and his breath choked. 
 Only the picture, always horribly clear in his mind, of 
 a gallows dark against a pale sky and the little fire 
 beneath where the entrails of traitors were burned — a 
 nightmare which had long ridden him — ^nerved him to 
 the next step. "His life or mine," he told himself, as 
 he groped his way into a lane as steep, dank, and black 
 as the sides of a well. 
 
 For some twenty yards he stumbled in an air thick 
 with offal and garlic. He heard steps ahead, the boots 
 of the doomed magistrate and the slipshod pattens of 
 the woman. Then they stopped; his quarry seemed to 
 be ascending a stair on the right. It was a wretched 
 tenement of wood, two hundred years old, once a gar- 
 den house attached to the Savoy palace. Lovel 
 scrambled up some rickety steps and found himself on 
 the rotten planks .of a long passage, which was lit by 
 a small window giving to the west. He heard the 
 sound of a man slipping at the other end, and some- 
 thing like an oath. Then a door slammed violently, 
 and the place shook. After that it was quiet. Where 
 was the bloody fight that Godfrey had been brought to 
 settle? 
 
 It was very dark there; the window in the passage 
 was only a square of misty grey. Lovel felt eerie, a 
 Strange mood for an assassin. Magistrate and woman 
 seemed to have been spirited away. . . . He plucked 
 up courage and continued, one hand on the wall on 
 his left. Then a sound broke the silence — a scuffle, 
 and the long grate of something heavy dragged on a 
 rough floor. Presently his fingers felt a door. The 
 noise was inside that door. There were big cracks 
 in the panelling through which an eye could look, 
 but all was dark within. There were human beings 
 
198 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 moving there, and speaking softly. Very gingerly he 
 tried the hasp, but it was fastened firm inside. 
 
 Suddenly someone in the room struck a flint and 
 lit a lantern. Lovel set his eyes to a crack and stood 
 very still. The woman had gone, and the room held 
 three men. One lay on the floor with a coarse ker- 
 chief, such as grooms wear, knotted round his throat. 
 Over him bent a man in a long coat with a cape, a 
 man in a dark peruke, whose face was clear in the 
 lantern's light. Lovel knew him for one Bedloe, a 
 led-captain and cardsharper, whom he had himself 
 employed on occasion. The third man stood apart 
 and appeared from his gesticulations to be speaking 
 rapidly. He wore his own sandy hair, and every line 
 of his mean freckled face told of excitement and fear. 
 Him also Lovel recognised — Carstairs, a Scotch in- 
 former who had once made a handsome living through 
 spying on conventicles, but had now fallen into poverty 
 owing to conducting an affair of Buckingham's with a 
 brutality which that fastidious nobleman had not bar- 
 gained for. . . . Lovel rubbed his eyes and looked 
 again. He knew likewise the man on the floor. It was 
 Sir Edmund Godfrey, and Sir Edmund Godfrey was 
 dead. 
 
 The men were talking. "No blood-letting," said 
 Bedloe. "This must be a dry job. Though, by God, 
 I wish I could stick my knife into him — once for 
 Trelawney, once for Frewen, and a dozen times for 
 myself. Through this swine I have festered a twelve- 
 month in Little Ease." 
 
 Level's first thought, as h'e stared, was an immense 
 relief. His business had been done for him, and he 
 had escaped the guilt of It. His second, that here 
 lay a chance of fair profit. Godfrey was a great man, 
 and Bedloe and Carstairs were the seediest of rogues. 
 
THE MARPLOT 199 
 
 He might make favor for himself with the Govern- 
 ment if he had them caught red-handed. It would 
 help his status in Aldersgate Street. . . . But he must 
 act at once or the murderers would be gone. He 
 tiptoed back along the passage, tumbled down the 
 crazy steps, and ran up the steep entry to where he 
 saw a glimmer of light from the Strand. 
 
 At the gate he all but fell into the arms of a man — a 
 powerful fellow, for it was like running against a brick 
 wall. Two strong arms gripped Lovel by the shoulder, 
 and a face looked into his. There was little light in 
 the street, but the glow from the window of a Court 
 perruquier was sufficient to reveal the features. Lovel 
 saw a gigantic face, with a chin so long that the mouth 
 seemed to be only half-way down it. Small eyes, red 
 and fiery, were set deep under a beetling forehead. The 
 skin was a dark purple, and the wig framing it was so 
 white and fleecy that the man had the appearance of a 
 malevolent black-faced sheep. 
 
 Lovel gasped, as he recognised the celebrated Sala- 
 manca Doctor. He was the man above all others 
 whom he most wished to see. 
 
 "Dr. Oates!" he cried. "There's bloody work in 
 the Savoy. I was passing through a minute agone and 
 I saw that noble Justice, Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, 
 He dead, and his murderers beside the body. Quick, 
 let us get the watch and take them red-handed." 
 
 The big paws, like a gorilla's, were withdrawn from 
 his shoulders. The purple complexion seemed to go 
 nearly black, and the wide mouth opened as if to 
 bellow. But the sound which emerged was only a 
 whisper. 
 
 "By the maircy of Gaad we will have 'em! . . . 
 A maist haarrid and unnaitural craime. I will take 
 'em with my own haands. Here is one who will help." 
 
200 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 And he turned to a man who had come up and who 
 looked like a city tradesman. "Lead on, honest fellow, 
 and we will see justice done. 'Tis pairt of the bloody 
 Plaat ... I foresaw It. I warned Sir Edmund, but 
 he flouted me. Ah, poor soul, he has paid for his 
 unbelref." 
 
 Lovel, followed by Oates and the other whom he 
 called Prance, dived again into the darkness. Now 
 he had no fears. He saw himself acclaimed with the 
 Doctor as the saviour of the nation, and the door of 
 Aldersgate Street open at his knocking. The man 
 Prance produced a lantern, and lighted them up the 
 steps and into the tumbledown passage. Fired with 
 a sudden valour, Lovel drew his sword and led the 
 way to the sinister room. The door was open, and 
 the place lay empty, save for the dead body. 
 
 Oates stood beside It, looking, with his bandy legs, 
 great shoulders, and bull neck, like some forest 
 baboon. 
 
 "Oh, maist haanourable and noble victim !" he cried. 
 "England will maarn you, and the spawn of Raam will 
 maarn you, for by this deed they have rigged for 
 thaimselves the gallows. Maark ye. Sir Edmund is 
 the proto-martyr of this new fight for the Praatestant 
 faith. He ha-s died that the people may live, and by 
 his death Gaad has given England the sign she re- 
 quired. . . . Ah, Prance, how little Tony Shaston will 
 exult in our news ! 'Twill be to him like a bone to a 
 cur-dog to take his ainemles thus red-haanded." 
 
 "By your leave, sir," said Lovel, "those same 
 enemies have escaped us. I saw them here five minutes 
 since, but they have gone to earth. What say you to 
 a_ hue-and-cry — though this Savoy is a snug warren to 
 hide vermin?" 
 
 Oates seemed to be in no hurry. He took the lantern 
 
THE MARPLOT 201 
 
 from Prance and scrutinised Level's face with savage 
 intensity. 
 
 "Ye saw them, ye say. ... I think, friend, I have 
 seen ye before, and I doubt in no good quaarter. 
 There's a Paapist air about you." 
 
 "If you have seen me, 'twas in the house of my 
 Lord Shaftesbury, whom I have the honour to serve," 
 said Lovel stoutly. 
 
 "Whoy, that is an haanest house enough. Whaat 
 like were the villains, then? Jaisuits, I'll warrant? 
 Foxes from St. Omer's airth?" 
 
 "They were two common cutthroats whose names I 
 know." 
 
 "Tools, belike. Fingers of the Paape's hand. 
 . . . Ye seem to have a good acquaintance among 
 rogues, Mr. Whaat's-you-name." 
 
 The man Prance had disappeared, and Lovel sud- 
 denly saw his prospects less bright. The murderers 
 were being given a chance to escape, and to his sur- 
 prise he found himself in a fret to get after them, 
 Oates had clearly no desire for their capture, and the 
 reason flashed on his mind. The murder had come 
 most opportunely for him, and he sought to lay it at 
 Jesuit doors. It would ill suit his plans if only two 
 common rascals were to swing for it. Far better let 
 It remain a mystery open to awful guesses. Omne 
 ignotum fro horrifico. . . . Lovel's temper was get- 
 ting the better of his prudence, and the sight of this 
 monstrous baboon with his mincing speech stirred in 
 him a strange abhorrence. 
 
 "I can bear witness that the men who did the deed 
 were no more Jesuits than you. One is just out of 
 Newgate, and the other Is a blackguard Scot late dis- 
 missed the Duke of Buckingham's service." 
 
 "Ye lie," and Oates' rasping voice was close to his 
 
202 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 ear. " 'Tis an incraidible tale. Will ye outface me, 
 who alone discovered the Plaat, and dispute with me 
 on high poalicy? . . . Now I come to look at it, ye 
 have a true Jaisuit face. I maind of ye at St. Omer, 
 I judge ye an accoamplice ..." 
 
 At that moment Prance returned and with him 
 another, a man in a dark peruke, wearing a long coat 
 with a cape. Level's breath went from him as he 
 recognised Bedloe. 
 
 "There is the murderer," he cried in a sudden fury. 
 "I saw him handle the body. I charge you to hold 
 him." 
 
 Bedloe halted and looked at Oates, who nodded. 
 Then he strode up to Lovel and took him by the throat. 
 
 "Withdraw your words, you dog," he said, "or I 
 will cut your throat. I have but this moment landed 
 at the river stairs and heard of this horrid business. 
 If you say you have ever seen me before you lie most 
 foully. Quick, you ferret. Will Bedloe suffers no man 
 to charge his honour." 
 
 The strong hands on his neck, the fierce eyes of the 
 bravo, brought back Lovel's fear and with it his 
 prudence. He saw very plainly the game, and he 
 realised that he must assent to it. His contrition was 
 deep and voluble. 
 
 "I withdraw," he stammered, "and humbly crave 
 pardon. I have never seen this honest gentleman 
 before." 
 
 "But ye saw this foul murder, and though the laight 
 was dim ye saw the murderers, and they had the 
 Jaisuitical air?" 
 
 Oates' menacing voice had more terror for Lovel 
 than Bedloe's truculence. "Beyond doubt," he replied. 
 
 "Whoy, that is so far good," and the Doctor 
 laughed. "Ye will be helped later to remember the 
 
THE MARPLOT 203 
 
 names for the benefit of his Maajesty's Court. . . . 
 'Tis time we set to work. Is the place quiet?" 
 
 "As the grave, doctor," said Prance. 
 
 "Then I will unfold to you my pairpose. This 
 noble magistrate is foully murdered by pairsons un- 
 known as yet, but whom this haanest man will swear to 
 have been disguised Jaisuits. Now in the sairvice of 
 Goad and the King 'tis raight to pretermit no aiffort 
 to bring the guilty to justice. The paiple of England 
 are already roused to a holy fairvour, and this haarrid 
 craime will be as the paistol flash to the powder caask. 
 But that the craime may have its full effaict on the 
 paapulace 'tis raight to take some trouble with the 
 staging. 'Tis raight so to dispose of the boady that 
 the complaicity of the Paapists will be clear to every 
 doubting fool. I, Taltus Oates, take upon myself this 
 responsibility, seeing that under Goad I am the chosen 
 ainstrument for the paiple's salvation. To Soamersait 
 Haase with it, say I, which is known for a haaunt of 
 the paapistically-minded. . . . The postern ye know 
 of is open, Mr. Prance?" 
 
 "I have seen to it," said the man, who seemed to 
 conduct himself in this wild business with the decorum 
 of a merchant in his shop. 
 
 "Up with him, then," said Oates. 
 
 Prance and Bedloe swung the corpse on their shoul- 
 ders and moved out, while the doctor, gripping Lovel's 
 arm like a vice, followed at a little distance. 
 
 The Savoy was very quiet that night, and very dark. 
 The few loiterers who observed the procession must 
 have shrugged their shoulders and turned aside, zealous 
 only to keep out of trouble. Such sights were not un- 
 common in the Savoy. They entered a high ruinous 
 house on the east side, and after threading various 
 passages reached a door which opened on a flight of 
 
204 THE PATH OF THE KING i 
 
 broken steps where it was hard for more than oiie to 
 pass at a time. Lovel heard the carriers of the dead 
 grunting as they squeezed up with their burden. At 
 the top another door gave on an outhouse in the yard 
 of Somerset House between the stables and the west 
 water-gate. . . . Lovel, as he stumbled after them, 
 with Oates' bulk dragging at his arm, was in a con- 
 fusion of mind such as his mean time-serving life had 
 never known. 
 
 He was in mortal fear, and yet his quaking heart 
 would suddenly be braced by a gust of anger. He 
 knew he was a rogue, but there were limits to roguery, 
 and something in him — conscience, maybe, or forgot- 
 ten gentility — sickened at this outrage. He had an 
 impulse to defy them, to gain the street and give the 
 alarm to honest men. These fellows were going to 
 construct a crime in their own way which would bring 
 death to the innocent. . . . Mr. Lovel trembled at 
 himself, and had to think hard on his family in the 
 Billingsgate attic to get back his common-sense. He 
 would not be believed if he spoke out. Oates would 
 only swear that he was the culprit, and Oates had the 
 ear of the courts and the mob. Besides, he had too 
 many dark patches In his past. It was not for such 
 as he to be finicking. 
 
 The body was pushed under an old truckle-bed 
 which stood in the corner, and a mass of frails, such as 
 gardeners use, flung over it for concealment. Oates 
 rubbed his hands. 
 
 "The good waark goes merrily," he said. "Sir 
 Edmund dead, and for a week the good fawk of 
 London are a-fevered. Then the haarrid discovery, 
 and such a Praatestant uprising as will shake the 
 malghtiest from his pairch. Wonderful are Goad's 
 ways and surprising His jaidgements! Every step 
 
THE MARPLOT 205 
 
 must be weighed, since it is the Laard's business. Five 
 days we must give this city to grow uneasy, and then 
 . . . The boady will be safe here?" 
 
 "I alone have the keys," said Prance. 
 
 The doctor counted on his thick fingers. 
 
 "Monday — ^Tuesday — ^Waidnesday — aye, Waidnes- 
 day's the day. Captain Bedloe, ye have chairge of 
 the removal. Before dawn by the water-gate, and 
 then a chair and a trusty man to cairry it to the plaace 
 of discovery. Ye have appainted the spoat?" 
 
 "Any ditch in the Marylebone fields," said Bedloe. 
 
 "And before ye remove it — on the Tuesday naight 
 haply — ^ye will run the boady through with his swaard 
 — Sir Edmund's swaard." 
 
 "So you tell me," said Bedloe gruffly, "but I see no 
 reason in it. The foollshest apothecary will be able 
 to tell how the man met his death." 
 
 Oates grinned and laid his finger to his nose. "Ye 
 laack subtlety, fraiend. The priests of Baal must be 
 met with their own waipons. Look ye. This poor 
 man is found with his swaard in his braist. He has 
 killed himself, says the fool. Not so, say the apothe- 
 caries. Then why the swaard? asks the coroner. 
 Because of the daivilish cunning of his murderers, says 
 Doctor Taitus Oates. A clear proof that the Jaisuits 
 are in it, says every honest Praatistant. D'ye take 
 me?" 
 
 Bedloe declared with oaths his admiration of the 
 Doctor's wit, and good humour filled the hovel. All 
 but Lovel, who once again was wrestling with some- 
 thing elemental in him that threatened to ruin every- 
 thing. He remembered the bowed stumbling figure 
 that had gone before him in the Marylebone meadows. 
 Then he had been its enemy; now by a queer contortion 
 of the mind he thought of himself as the only pro- 
 
2o6 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 tector of that cold clay under the bed — honoured in 
 life, but in death a poor pawn in a rogue's cause. He 
 stood a little apart from the others near the door, and 
 his eyes sought it furtively. He was not in the plot, 
 and yet the plotters did not trouble about him. They 
 assumed his complaisance. Doubtless they knew his 
 shabby past. 
 
 He was roused by Oates' voice. The Doctor was 
 arranging his plan of campaign with gusto. Bedloe 
 was to disappear to the West Country till the time 
 came for him to offer his evidence. Prance was to go 
 about his peaceful trade till Bedloe gave him the cue. 
 It was a masterly stratagem — Bedloe to start the ball, 
 Prance to be accused as accomplice and then on his 
 own account to give the other scoundrel corroboration. 
 
 "Attend, you sir," the doctor shouted to Lovel. 
 "Ye will be called to swear to the murderers whom 
 this haanest man will name. If ye be a true Praa- 
 testant ye will repeat the laisson I taich you. If not, 
 ye will be set down as one of the villains and the good 
 f awk of this city will tear the limbs from ye at my nod. 
 Be well advaised, my friend, for I hold ye in my 
 haand." And Oates raised a great paw and opened 
 and shut it. 
 
 Lovel mumbled assent. Fear had again descended 
 on him. He heard dimly the Doctor going over the 
 names of those to be accused. 
 
 "Ye must bring in one of the sairvants of this 
 place," he said. "Some common paarter, who has no 
 friends." 
 
 "Trust me," said Prance. "I will find a likely fellow 
 among the Queen's household. I have several in my 
 mind for the honour." 
 
 "Truly the plaace Is a nest of Paapists," said Oates. 
 "And not such as you, Mr. Prance, who putt England 
 
THE MARPLOT 207 
 
 before the Paape. Ye are worth a score of Praates- 
 tants to the good caause, and it will be remaimbered. 
 Be assured it will be remaimbered. ... Ye are clear 
 about the main villains ? Walsh, you say, and Pritchard 
 and the man called Le Fevre?" 
 
 "The last most of all. But they are sharp-nosed as 
 hounds, and unless we go warily they will give us the 
 slip, and we must fall back on lesser game." 
 
 "Le Fevre." Oates mouthed the name. "The 
 Queen's confessor. I was spit upon by him at St. 
 Omer, and would waipe out the affront. A dog of a 
 Frainch priest I A man I have long abhaarred." 
 
 "So also have L" Prance had venom in his level 
 voice. "But he is no Frenchman. He is English as 
 you — a Phayre out of Huntingdon." 
 
 The name penetrated Lovel's dulled wits. Phayre 1 
 It was the one man who in his father's life had shown 
 him unselfish kindness. Long ago in Paris this Phayre 
 had been his teacher, had saved him from starvation, 
 had treated him with a gentleman's courtesy. Even 
 his crimes had not estranged this friend. Phayre had 
 baptized his child, and tended his wife when he was in 
 hiding. But a week ago he had spoken a kindly word 
 in the Mall to one who had rarely a kind word from 
 an honest man. 
 
 That day had been to the spy a revelation of odd 
 corners in his soul. He had mustered in the morning 
 the resolution to kill one man. Now he discovered a 
 scruple which bade him at all risks avert the killing of 
 another. He perceived very clearly what the decision 
 meant — desperate peril, perhaps ruin and death. He 
 dare not delay, for in a little he would be too deep in 
 the toils. He must escape and be first with the news 
 of Godfrey's death in some potent quarter. Bucking- 
 
2o8 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 ham, who was a great prince. Or Danby. Or the King 
 himself. . . . 
 
 The cunning of a lifetime failed him in that mo- 
 ment. He slipped through the door, but his coat 
 caught in a splinter of wood, and the rending of it 
 gave the alarm. As with quaking heart he ran up the 
 silent stable-yard towards the Strand gate he felt close 
 on him the wind of the pursuit. In the dark he slipped 
 on a patch of horse-dung and was down. Something 
 heavy fell atop of him, and the next second a gross 
 agony tore the breath from him. 
 
 Five minutes later Bcdloe was unknotting a coarse 
 kerchief and stuffing it into his pocket. It was the 
 same that had strangled Godfrey. 
 
 "A good riddance," said Oates. "The fool had seen 
 too much and would have proved but a saarry witness. 
 Now by the mairciful dispensation of Goad he has 
 ceased to trouble us. Ye know him, Captain Bedloe?" 
 
 "A Papistical cur, and white-livered at that," the 
 bravo anS'Wered. 
 
 "And his boady? It must be praamptly disposed 
 of." 
 
 "An easy task. There Is the Savoy water-gate and 
 in an hour the tide will run. He has no friends to 
 inquire after him." 
 
 Oates rubbed his hands and cast his eyes upward. 
 "Great are the doings of the Laard," he said, "and 
 wonderful in our saight 1" 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE LIT CHAMBER 
 
 TTE was hoisted on his horse by an ostler and two 
 A -■■ local sots from the tap-room, his valise was 
 strapped none too securely before him, and with a fare- 
 well, which was meant to be gracious but was only 
 foolish, he tittuped into the rain. He was as drunk as 
 an owl, though he did not know it. All afternoon he 
 had been mixing strong Cumberland ale with the 
 brandy he had got from the Solway free-traders, and 
 by five o'clock had reached that state when he saw the 
 world all gilt and rosy and himself as an applauded 
 actor on a splendid stage. He had talked grandly to 
 his fellow topers, and opened to their rustic wits a 
 glimpse of the great world. They had bowed to a 
 master, even those slow Cumbrians who admired little 
 but fat cattle and blood horses. He had made a 
 sensation, had seen wonder and respect in dull eyes, 
 and tasted for a moment that esteem which he had 
 singularly failed to find elsewhere. 
 
 But he had been prudent. The Mr. Gilbert Craster 
 who had been travelling on secret business in Nithsdale 
 and the Ayrshire moorlands had not been revealed in 
 the change-house of Newbigging. There he had passed 
 by the name, long since disused, of Gabriel Lovel, 
 which happened to be his true one. It was a needful 
 precaution, for the times were crooked. Even in a 
 Border hamlet the name of Craster might be known, 
 and since for the present it had a Whig complexion, 
 it was well to go warily in a place where feeling ran 
 
 209 
 
210 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 high and at an hour when the Jacobites were on die 
 march. But that other name of Lovel was buried deep 
 in the forgotten scandal of London by-streets. 
 
 The gentleman late re-christened Lovel had for the 
 moment no grudge against life. He was in the pay of 
 a great man, no less than the lord Duke of Marlbor- 
 ough, and he considered that he was earning his wages. 
 A soldier of fortune, he accepted the hire of the best 
 paymaster; only he sold not a sword, but wits. A 
 pedant might have called it honour, but Mr. Lovel was 
 no pedant. He had served a dozen chiefs on different 
 sides. For Bolingbroke he had scoured France and 
 twice imperilled his life in Highland bogs. For 
 Somers he had travelled to Spain, and for Wharton 
 had passed unquiet months on the Welsh marches. 
 After his fashion he was an honest servant and re- 
 ported the truth so far as his ingenuity could discern it. 
 But, once quit of a great man's service, he sold his 
 knowledge readily to an opponent, and had been like 
 to be out of employment, since unless his masters gave 
 him an engagement for life he was certain some day 
 to carry the goods they had paid for to their rivals. 
 But Marlborough had seen his uses, for the great Duke 
 sat loose to parties and earnestly desired to know the 
 facts. So for Marlborough he went into the conclaves 
 of both Whig and Jacobite, making his complexion suit 
 his company. 
 
 He was new come from the Scottish south-west, for 
 the Duke was eager to know if the malcontent moor- 
 land Whigs were about to fling their blue bonnets for 
 King James. A mission of such discomfort Mr. Lovel 
 had never known, not even when he was a go-between 
 for Ormonde in the Irish bogs. He had posed as an 
 emissary from the Dutch brethren, son of an exiled 
 Brownist, and for the first time in his life had found 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 2n 
 
 his regicide great-grandfather useful. The jargon of 
 the godly fell smoothly from his tongue, and with its 
 aid and that of certain secret letters he had found his 
 way to the heart of the sectaries. He had sat through 
 weary sermons in Cameronian sheilings, and been 
 present at the childish parades of the Hebronite rem- 
 nant. There was nothing to be feared in that quarter, 
 for to them all in authority were idolaters and George 
 no worse than James. In those moorland sojournings, 
 too, he had got light on other matters, for he had the 
 numbers of Kenmure's levies in his head, had visited 
 my lord Stair at his grim Galloway castle, and had had 
 a long midnight colloquy with Roxburghe on Tweed- 
 side. He had a pretty tale for his master, once he 
 could get to him. But with Northumberland up and 
 the Highlanders at Jedburgh and Kenmure coming 
 from the west, it had been a ticklish business to cross 
 the Border. Yet by cunning and a good horse it had 
 been accomplished, and he found himself in Cumber- 
 land with the road open southward to the safe Lowther 
 country. Wherefore Mr. Lovel had relaxed, and 
 taken his ease in an inn. 
 
 He would not have admitted that he was drunk, but 
 he presently confessed that he was not clear about his 
 road. He had meant to lie at Brampton, and had been 
 advised at the tavern of a short cut, a moorland bridle- 
 path. Who had told him of it? The landlord, he 
 thought, or the merry fellow in brown who had stood 
 brandv to the company? Anyhow, it was to save him 
 five miles, and that was something in this accursed 
 weather. The path was clear — he could see it squelch- 
 ing below him, pale in the last wet daylight — ^but where 
 the devil did it lead? Into the heart of a moss, it 
 seemed, and yet Brampton lay out of the moors in the 
 tilled valley. 
 
212 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 At first the fumes in his head raised him above the 
 uncertainty of his road and the eternal downpour. His 
 mind was far away in a select world of his own 
 imagining. He saw himself in a privy chamber, to 
 which he had been conducted by reverent lackeys, the 
 door closed, the lamp lit, and the Duke's masterful 
 eyes bright with expectation. He saw the fine thin lips, 
 like a woman's, primmed in satisfaction. He heard 
 words of compliment — "none so swift and certain as 
 you" — "in truth, a master-hand" — "I know not where 
 to look for your like." Delicious speeches seemed to 
 soothe his ear. And gold, too, bags of it, the tale of 
 which would never appear in any accompt-book. Nay, 
 his fancy soared higher. He saw himself presented to 
 Ministers as one of the country's saviours, and kissing 
 the hand of Majesty. What Majesty and what Min- 
 isters he knew not, and did not greatly care — ^that was 
 not his business. The rotundity of the Hanoverian and 
 the lean darkness of the Stuart were one to him. Both 
 could reward an adroit servant. . . . His vanity, 
 terribly starved and cribbed in his normal existence, 
 now blossomed like a flower. His muddled head was 
 fairly ravished with delectable pictures. He seemed 
 to be set at a great height above mundane troubles, 
 and to look down on men like a benignant God. His 
 soul glowed with a happy warmth. 
 
 But somewhere he was devilish cold. His wretched 
 body was beginning to cry out with discomfort. A 
 loop of his hat was broken and the loose flap was a 
 conduit for the rain down his back. His old riding- 
 coat was like a dish-clout, and he felt icy about the 
 middle. Separate streams of water entered the tops 
 of his riding-boots — they were a borrowed pair and 
 too big for him — and his feet were in puddles. It was 
 only by degrees that he realised this misery. Then in 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 213 
 
 the boggy track his horse began to stumble. The 
 fourth or fifth peck woke irritation, and he jerked 
 savagely at the bridle, and struck the beast's dripping 
 flanks with his whip. The result was a jib and a 
 flounder, and the shock squeezed out the water from 
 his garments as from a sponge. Mr. Lovel descended 
 from the heights of fancy to prosaic fact, and cursed. 
 
 The dregs of strong drink were still in him, and so 
 soon as exhilaration ebbed they gave edge to his natural 
 fears. He perceived that it had grown very dark and 
 lonely. The rain, falling sheer, seemed to shut him 
 into a queer wintry world. All around the land echoed 
 with the steady drum of it, and the rumour of swollen 
 runnels. A wild bird wailed out of the mist and 
 startled Mr. Lovel like a ghost. He heard the sound 
 of men talking and drew rein; it was only a larger 
 burn foaming by the wayside. The sky was black above 
 him, yet a faint grey light seemed to linger, for water 
 glimmered and he passed what seemed to be the edge 
 of a loch. ... At another time the London-bred 
 citizen would have been only peevish, for Heaven 
 knew he had faced ill weather before in ill places. But 
 the fiery stuff he had swallowed had woke a feverish 
 fancy. Exaltation suddenly changed to foreboding. 
 
 He halted and listened. Nothing but the noise of 
 the weather, and the night dark around him like a 
 shell. For a moment he fancied he caught the sound 
 of horses, but it was not repeated. Where did this 
 accursed track mean to lead him? Long ago he should 
 have been in the valley and nearing Brampton. He 
 was as wet as if he had wallowed in a pool, cold, and 
 very weary. A sudden disgust at his condition drove 
 away his fears and he swore lustily at fortune. He 
 longed for the warmth and the smells of his favourite 
 haunts — Gilpin's with oysters frizzling in a dozen 
 
214 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 pans, and noble odours stealing from the tap-room, the 
 Green Man with its tripe-suppers, Wanless's Coffee 
 House, noted for its cuts of beef and its white pud- 
 dings. He would give much to be in a chair by one of 
 those hearths and in the thick of that blowsy fragrance. 
 Now his nostrils were filled with rain and bog water 
 and a sodden world. It smelt sour, like stale beer in 
 a mouldy cellar. And cold ! He crushed down his hat 
 on his head and precipitated a new deluge. 
 
 A bird skirled again in his ear, and his fright re- 
 turned. He felt small and alone in a vast inhospitable 
 universe. And mingled with it all was self-pity, for 
 drink had made him maudlin. He wanted so little — 
 only a modest comfort, a little ease. He had forgotten 
 that half an hour before he had been figuring in princes' 
 cabinets. He would give up this business and be quit 
 of danger and the high road. The Duke must give 
 him a reasonable reward, and with it he and his child 
 might dwell happily in some country place. He re- 
 membered a cottage at Guildford all hung with roses. 
 . . . But the Duke was reputed a miserly patron, and 
 at the thought Mr. Lovel's eyes overflowed. There 
 was that damned bird again, wailing like a lost soul. 
 The eeriness of it struck a chill to his heart, so that 
 if he had been able to think of any refuge he would 
 have set spurs to his horse and galloped for it in 
 blind terror. He was in the mood in which men com- 
 pose poetry, for he felt himself a midget in the grip of 
 immensities. He knew no poetry, save a few tavern 
 songs; but in his youth he had had the Scriptures 
 drubbed into him. He remembered ill-omened texts — 
 one especially about wandering through dry places 
 seeking rest. Would to Heaven he were in a dry 
 place now! . . . 
 
 The horse sprang aside and nearly threw him. It 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 215 
 
 had blundered against the stone pillar of a gateway. 
 
 It was now clear even to Mr. Lovel's confused wits 
 that he was lost. This might be the road to Tophet, 
 but it was no road to Brampton. He felt with numbed 
 hands the face of the gateposts. Here was an entrance 
 to some dwelling, and it stood open. The path led 
 through it, and if he left the path he would without 
 doubt perish in a bog-hole. In his desolation he longed 
 for a human face. He might find a good fellow who 
 would house him; at the worst he would get direction 
 about the road. So he passed the gateway and entered 
 an avenue. 
 
 It ran between trees which took the force of the 
 downpour, so that it seemed a very sanctuary after the 
 open moor. His spirits lightened. The infernal birds 
 had stopped crying, but again he heard the thud of 
 hooves. That was right, and proved the place was 
 tenanted. Presently he turned a corner and faced a 
 light which shone through the wet, rayed like a her- 
 aldic star. 
 
 The sight gave him confidence, for it brought him 
 back to a familiar world. He rode straight to it, 
 crossing a patch of rough turf, where a fallen log all 
 but brought him down. As he neared it the light 
 grew till he saw its cause. He stood before the main 
 door of a house and it was wide open. A great lantern, 
 hung from a beam just inside, showed a doorway of 
 some size and magnificence. And below it stood a 
 servant, an old man, who at the sight of the stranger 
 advanced to hold his stirrup. 
 
 "Welcome, my lord," said the man. "All is ready 
 for you." 
 
 The last hour had partially sobered the traveller, 
 but, having now come safe to port, his drunkenness 
 revived. He saw nothing odd in the open door or the 
 
2i6 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 servant's greeting. As he scrambled to the ground 
 he was back In his first exhilaration. "My lord I" 
 Well, why not? This was an honest man who knew 
 quality when he met it. 
 
 Humming a tune and making a chain of little pools 
 on the stone flags of the hall, Mr. Lovel followed his 
 guide, who bore his shabby valise, another servant 
 having led away the horse. The hall was dim with 
 flickering shadows cast by the lamp in the doorway, 
 and smelt raw and cold as if the house had been little 
 dwelt in. Beyond it was a stone passage where a 
 second lamp burned and lit up a forest of monstrous 
 deer horns on the wall. The butler flung open a door. 
 
 "I trust your lordship will approve the prepara- 
 tions," he said. "Supper awaits you, and when you 
 have done I will show you your chamber. There are 
 dry shoes by the hearth." He took from the traveller 
 his sopping overcoat and drew from his legs the pulpy 
 riding-boots. With a bow which might have graced 
 a court he closed the door, leaving Mr. Lovel alone to 
 his entertainment. 
 
 It was a small square room panelled to the ceiling ' 
 in dark oak, and lit by a curious magnificence of 
 candles. They burned in sconces on the walls and in 
 tall candlesticks on the table, while a log fire on the 
 great stone hearth so added to the glow that the place 
 was as bright as day. The windows were heavily 
 shuttered and curtained, and in the far corner was 
 a second door. On the polished table food had been 
 laid — a noble ham, two virgin pies, a dish of fruits, 
 and a group of shining decanters. To one coming 
 out of the wild night it was a transformation like a 
 dream, but Mr. Lovel, half drunk, accepted it as no 
 more than his due. His feather brain had been fired 
 by the butler's "my lord," and he did not puzzle his 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 217 
 
 head with questions. From a slim bottle he filled 
 himself a glass of brandy, but on second thoughts set 
 it down untasted. He would sample the wine first, 
 and top off with the spirit. Meantime he would get 
 warm. 
 
 He stripped off his coat, which was dampish, and 
 revealed a dirty shirt and the dilapidated tops of his 
 small clothes. His stockings were torn and soaking, 
 so he took them off, and stuck his naked feet into the 
 furred slippers which stood waiting by the hearth. 
 Then he sat himself in a great brocaded arm-chair and 
 luxuriously stretched his legs to the blaze. 
 
 But his head was too much afire to sit still. The 
 comfort soaked into his being through every nerve and 
 excited rather than soothed him. He did not want to 
 sleep now, though a little before he had been crushed 
 by weariness. . . , There was a mirror beside the 
 fireplace, the glass painted at the edge with slender 
 flowers and cupids in the Caroline fashion. He saw his 
 reflection and it pleased him. The long face with the 
 pointed chin, the deep-set dark eyes, the skin brown 
 with weather — he seemed to detect a resemblance to 
 Wharton. Or was it Beaufort? Anyhow, now that 
 the shabby coat was off, he might well be a great man in 
 undress. "My lord!" Why not? His father had 
 always told him he came of an old high family. Kings, 
 he had said — of France, or somewhere. ... A gold 
 ring he wore on his left hand slipped from his finger 
 and jingled on the hearthstone. It was too big for 
 him, and when his fingers grew small with cold or wet 
 it was apt to fall off. He picked it up and laid it beside 
 the decanters on the table. That had been his father's 
 ring, and he congratulated himself that in all his neces- 
 sities he had never parted from it. It was said to have 
 come down from ancient kings. 
 
2i8 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 He turned to the table and cut himself a slice of 
 ham. But he found he had no appetite. He filled 
 himself a bumper of. claret. It was a ripe velvety 
 liquor and cooled his hot mouth. That was the drink 
 for gentlemen. Brandy in good time, but for the 
 present this soft wine which was in keeping with the 
 warmth and light and sheen of silver. . . . His ex- 
 citement was dying now into complacence. He felt 
 himself in the environment for which Providence had 
 fitted him. His whole being expanded in the glow of 
 it. He understood how able he was, how truly virtuous 
 — a master of intrigue, but one whose eye was always 
 fixed on the star of honour. And then his thoughts 
 wandered to his son in the mean London lodgings. 
 The boy should have his chance and walk some day in 
 silks and laces. Curse his aliases ! He should be 
 Lovel, and carry his head as high as any ViUiers or 
 Talbot. 
 
 The reflection sent his hand to an Inner pocket of 
 the coat now drying by the hearth. He took from it 
 a thin packet of papers wrapped in oil-cloth. These 
 were the fruits of his journey, together with certain 
 news too secret to commit to writing which he carried 
 in his head. He ran his eye over them, approved 
 them, and laid them before him on the table. They 
 started a train of thought which brought him to the 
 question of his present quarters. ... A shadow of 
 doubt flickered over his mind. Whose house was this 
 and why this entertainment? He had been expected, 
 or someone like him. An old campaigner took what 
 gifts the gods sent, but there might be questions to 
 follow. There was a coat of arms on the plate, but 
 so dim that he could not read it. The one picture in 
 the room showed an old man in a conventional suit of 
 armour. He did not recognise the face or remember 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 219 
 
 any like it. . . . He filled himself another bumper of 
 claret, and followed it with a little brandy. This latter 
 was noble stuff, by which he would abide. His sense 
 of ease and security returned. He pushed the papers 
 farther over, sweeping the ring with them, and set his 
 elbows on the table, a gentleman warm, dry, and con- 
 tent, but much befogged in the brain. 
 
 He raised his eyes to see the far door open and three 
 men enter. The sight brought him to his feet with a 
 start, and his chair clattered on the oak boards. He 
 made an attempt at a bow, backing steadily towards 
 the fireplace and his old coat. 
 
 The faces of the new-comers exhibited the most 
 lively surprise. All three were young, and bore marks 
 of travel, for though they had doffed their riding coats, 
 they were splashed to the knees with mud and their 
 unpowdered hair lay damp on their shoulders. One 
 was a very dark man who might have been a Spaniard 
 but for his blue eyes. The second was a mere boy with 
 a ruddy face and eyes full of dancing merriment. The 
 third was tall and red-haired, tanned of countenance 
 and lean as a greyhound. He wore trews of a tartan 
 which Mr. Lovel, trained in such matters, recognised 
 as that of the house of Atholl. ^ 
 
 Of the three he only recognised the leader, and the 
 recognition sobered him. This was that Talbot,^ com- 
 monly known from his swarthiness as the Crow, who 
 was Ormonde's most trusted lieutenant. He had once 
 worked with him; he knew his fierce temper, his in- 
 tractable honesty. His bemused wits turned desper- 
 ately to concocting a conciliatory tale. 
 
 But he seemed to be unrecognised. The three stared 
 at him in wild-eyed amazement. 
 
 "Who the devil are you, sir?" the Highlander 
 stammered. 
 
220 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Mr. Lovel this time brought off his bow. "A st/irm- 
 stayed traveller," he said, his eyes fawning, "who has 
 sturnbled on this princely hospitality. My name at 
 your honour's service is Gabriel Lovel." / 
 
 There was a second of dead silence and then the 
 boy laughed. It was merry laughter and broke in 
 strangely on the tense air of the room. 
 
 "Lovel," he cried, and there was an Irish burr in 
 his speech. "Lovel! And that fool Jobson mistook 
 it for Lovat! I mistrusted the tale, for Simon is too 
 discreet even in his cups to confess his name in a change- 
 house. It seems we have been stalking the cailzie-cock 
 and found a common thrush." 
 
 The dark man Talbot did not smile. "We had good 
 reason to look for Lovat. Widrington had word from 
 London that he was on his way to the north by the 
 west marches. Had we found him we had found a 
 prize, for he will play hell with Mar if he crosses the 
 Highland line. What say you, Lord Charles?" 
 
 The Highlander nodded. "I would give my sporran 
 filled ten times with gold to have my hand on Simon. 
 What devil's luck to be marching south with that old 
 fox in our rear!" 
 
 The boy pulled up a chair to the table. "Since we 
 have missed the big game, let us follow the less. I'm 
 for supper, if this gentleman will permit us to share a 
 feast destined for another. Sit down, sir, and fill your 
 glass. You are not to be blamed for -not being a certain 
 Scots lord. Lovel, I dare say, is an honester name 
 than Lovat! 
 
 But Talbot was regarding the traveller with hard 
 eyes. "You called him a thrush, Nick, but I have a 
 notion he is more of a knavish jackdaw. I have seen 
 this gentleman before. You were with Ormonde?" 
 
 "I had once the honour to serve his Grace," said 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 221 
 
 Lovel, still feverishly trying to devise a watertight tale. 
 
 "Ah, I remember now. You thought his star de- 
 scending and carried your wares to the other side. 
 And who is your new employer, Mr. Lovel? His 
 present Majesty?" 
 
 His glance caught the papers on the table and he 
 swept them towards him. 
 
 "What have we here?" and his quick eye scanned 
 the too legible handwriting. Much was in cipher and 
 contractions, but some names stood out damningly. In 
 that month of October in that year 1715 "K'=" could 
 only stand for "Kenmure" and "N'" for "Nithsdale." 
 
 Mr. Lovel made an attempt at dignity. 
 
 "These are my papers, sir," he blustered. "I know 
 not by what authority you examine them." But his 
 protest failed because of the instability of his legs, on 
 which his potations early and recent had suddenly a 
 fatal effect. He was compelled to collapse heavily in 
 the arm-chair by the hearth. 
 
 "I observe that the gentleman has lately been 
 powdering his hair," said the boy whom they called 
 Nick. 
 
 Mr. Lovel was wroth. He started upon the usual 
 drunkard's protestations, but was harshly cut short by 
 Talbot. 
 
 "You ask me my warrant. 'Tis the commission of 
 his Majesty King James in whose army I have the 
 honour to hold a command." 
 
 He read on, nodding now and then, pursing his 
 mouth at a word, once copying something on to his own 
 tablets. Suddenly he raised his head. 
 
 "When did his Grace dismiss you?" he asked. 
 
 Now Ormonde had been the Duke last spoken of, but 
 Mr. Lovel's precarious wits fell into the trap. He 
 
222 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 denied indignantly that he had fallen from his master's 
 favour. 
 
 A grim smile played round Talbot's mouth. 
 
 "You have confessed," he said. Then to the others: 
 "This fellow is one of Malbrouck's pack. He has been 
 nosing in the Scotch westlands. Here are the numbers 
 of Kenmure and Nithsdale to enable the great Duke 
 to make up his halting mind. See, he has been with 
 Roxburghe too. . . . We have a spy before us, gentle- 
 men, delivered to our hands by a happy incident. Whig 
 among the sectaries and with Stair and Roxburghe, and 
 Jacobite among our poor honest folk, and wheedling 
 the secrets out of both sides to sell to one who disposes 
 of them at a profit in higher quarters. Faugh ! I know 
 the vermin. An honest Whig like John Argyll I can 
 
 respect and fight, but for such rats as this What 
 
 shall we do with it now that we have trapped it?" 
 
 "Let it go," said the boy, Nick Wogan. "The land 
 crawls with them and we cannot go rat-hunting when 
 we are aiming at a throne." He picked up Lovel's ring 
 and spun it on a finger tip. "The gentleman has found 
 more than news in the north. He has acquired a solid 
 lump of gold." 
 
 The implication roused Mr. Lovel out of his em- 
 barrassment. "I wear the ring by right. I had it from 
 my father." His voice was tearful with offended pride. 
 
 "The creature claims gentility," said Talbot, as he 
 examined the trinket. "Lovel you call yourself. But 
 Lovel bears barry nebuly or chevronels. This coat has 
 three plain charges. Can you read them, Nick, for my 
 eyes are weak I I am curious to know from whom he 
 stole It." 
 
 The boy scanned It closely. "Three of something. 
 I think they are fleur-de-Iys, which would spell Mont- 
 gomery. Or lions' heads, maybe, for Buchan ?" 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 223 
 
 He passed it to Lord Charles, who held It to a 
 candle's light. "Nay, I think they are Cummin garbs. 
 Some poor fellow dirked and spoiled." 
 
 Mr. Lovel was outraged and forgot his fears. He 
 forgot, indeed, most things which he should have 
 remembered. He longed only to establish his gentility 
 in the eyes of those three proud gentlemen. The 
 liquor was ebbing in him and with it had flown all his 
 complacence. He felt small and mean and despised, 
 and the talents he had been pluming himself on an hour 
 before had now shrunk to windlestraws. 
 
 "I do assure you, sirs," he faltered, "the ring is mine 
 own. I had it from my father, who had it from his. I 
 am of an ancient house, though somewhat decayed." 
 
 His eyes sought those of his inquisitors with the 
 pathos of a dog. But he saw only hostile faces — 
 Talbot's grave and grim. Lord Charles' contemptuous, 
 the boy's smiling ironically, 
 
 "Decayed, indeed," said the dark man, "pitifully 
 decayed. If you be gentle the more shame on you." 
 
 Mr. Lovel was almost whining. "I swear I am 
 honest. I do my master's commissions and report 
 what I learn." 
 
 "Aye, sir, but how do you learn it? By playing the 
 imposter and winning your way into an unsuspecting 
 confidence. To you friendship is a tool and honour a 
 convenience. You cheat in every breath you draw. 
 And what a man gives you in his innocence may bring 
 him to the gallows. By God! I'd rather slit throats 
 on a highway for a purse or two than cozen men to 
 their death by such arts as yours." 
 
 In other circumstances Mr. Lovel might have put 
 up a brazen defence, but now he seemed to have lost 
 assurance. "I do no ill," was all he could stammer, 
 "for I have no bias. I am for no side in politics." 
 
224 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "So much the worse. A man who spies for a cause 
 in which he believes may redeem by that faith a dirty 
 trade. But in cold blood you practise infamy." 
 
 The night was growing wilder, and even in that 
 sheltered room its echoes were felt. Wind shook the 
 curtains and blew gusts of ashes from the fire. The 
 place had become bleak and tragic and Mr. Lovel felt 
 the forlornness in his bones. Something had woke in 
 him which shivered the fabric of a lifetime. The three 
 faces, worn, anxious, yet of a noble hardihood, stirred 
 in him a strange emotion. Hopes and dreams, long 
 forgotten, flitted like spectres across his memory. He 
 had something to say, something which demanded ut- 
 terance, and his voice grew bold. 
 
 "What do you know of my straits?" he cried. "Men 
 of fortune like you I My race is old, but I never had 
 the benefit of it. I was bred in a garret and have all 
 my days been on nodding terms with starvation. . . . 
 What should I know about your parties? What should 
 I care for Whig and Tory or what king has his hinder- 
 end on the throne? Tell me in God's name how should 
 such as I learn loyalty except to the man who gives me 
 gold to buy food and shelter? Heaven knows I have 
 never betrayed a master while I served him." 
 
 The shabby man with the lean face had secured an 
 advantage. For a moment the passion in his voice 
 dominated the room. 
 
 "Cursed if this does not sound like truth," said the 
 boy, and his eyes were almost friendly. 
 
 But Talbot did not relax. 
 
 "By your own confession you are outside the pale of 
 gentility. I do not trouble to blame you, but I take 
 leave to despise you. By your grace, sir, we will dis- 
 pense with your company." 
 
 The ice of his scorn did not chill the strange emotion 
 
THE LIT CHAMBER 225 
 
 which seemed to have entered the air. The scarecrow 
 by the fire had won a kind of dignity. 
 
 "I am going," he said. "Will you have the goodness 
 to send for my horse ? ... If you care to know, gen- 
 tleman, you have cut short a promising career. . . . 
 To much of what you say I submit. You have spoken 
 truth — not all the truth, but sufficient to unman me. I 
 am a rogue by your reckoning, for I think only of my 
 wages. Pray tell me what moves you to ride out on 
 what at the best is a desperate venture?" 
 
 There was nothing but sincerity in the voice, and 
 Talbot answered. 
 
 "I fight for the King ordained by God and for a 
 land which cannot flourish under the usurper. My 
 loyalty to throne, Church, and fatherland constrains 
 
 me. 
 
 Lovel's eye passed to Lord Charles. The High- 
 lander whistled very softly a bar or two of a wild 
 melody with longing and a poignant sorrow in it. 
 
 "That," he said. "I fight for the old ways and the 
 old days that are passing." 
 
 Nick Wogan smiled. "And I for neither — ^wholly. 
 I have a little of Talbot in me and more of Charles. 
 But I strike my blow for romance — the little against 
 the big, the noble few against the base many. I am 
 for youth against all dull huckstering things." 
 
 Mr. Lovel bowed. I am answered. I congratulate 
 you, gentlemen, on your good fortune. It is my grief 
 that I do not share it. I have not Mr. Talbot's politics, 
 nor am I a great Scotch lord, nor have I the felicity to 
 be young. ... I would beg you not to judge me 
 harshly." 
 
 By this time he had struggled into his coat and boots. 
 He stepped to the table and picked up the papers. 
 
 "By your leave," he said, and flung them into the fire. 
 
226 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "You were welcome to them," said Talbot. "Long 
 ere they got to Marlborough they would be useless." 
 
 "That Is scarcely the point," said Lovel. "I am 
 somewhat dissatisfied with my calling and contemplate 
 a change." 
 
 "You may sleep here if you wish," said Lord 
 Charles. 
 
 "I thank; you, but I am no fit company for you. I 
 am better on the road." 
 
 Talbot took a guinea from his purse. "Here's to 
 help your journey," he was saying, when Nick Wogan, 
 flushing darkly, intervened. "Damn you, James, don't 
 be a boor," he said. 
 
 The boy picked up the ring and offered it to Mr. 
 Lovel as he passed through the door. He also gave 
 him his hand. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 The traveller spurred his horse into the driving rain, 
 but he was oblivious of the weather. When he came 
 to Brampton he discovered to his surprise that he had 
 been sobbing. Except in liquor, he had not wept since 
 he was a child. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN THE DARK LAND 
 
 npHE fire was so cunningly laid that only on one side 
 -*• did it cast a glow, and there the light was ab- 
 sorbed by a dark thicket of laurels. It was built under 
 an overhang of limestone so that the smoke in the 
 moonlight would be lost against the grey face of the 
 rock. But, though the moon was only two days past 
 the full, there was no sign of it, for the rain had come 
 and the world was muffled in it. That morning the 
 Kentucky vales, as seen from the ridge where the camp 
 lay, had been like a furnace with the gold and scarlet 
 of autumn, and the air had been heavy with sweet Oc- 
 tober smells. Then the wind had suddenly shifted, the 
 sky had grown leaden, and in a queer dank chill the 
 advance-guard of winter had appeared — that winter 
 which to men with hundreds of pathless miles between 
 them and their homes was like a venture into an un- 
 charted continent. 
 
 One of the three hunters slipped from his buffalo 
 robe and dived into the laurel thicket to replenish the 
 fire from the stock of dry fuel. His figure revealed 
 itself fitfully in the firelight, a tall slim man with a 
 curious lightness of movement like a cat's. When he 
 had done his work he snuggled down in his skins in the 
 glow, and his two companions shifted their positions 
 to be near him. The fire-tender was the leader of the 
 little party. The light showed a face very dark with 
 weather. He had the appearance of wearing an untidy 
 perruque, which was a tight-fitting skin-cap with the 
 
 227 
 
228 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 pelt hanging behind. Below its fringe straggled a 
 selvedge of coarse black hair. But his eyes were blue 
 and very bright, and his eyebrows and lashes were 
 flaxen, and the contrast of light and dark had the effect 
 of something peculiarly bold and masterful. Of the 
 others one was clearly his brother, heavier in build, but 
 with the same eyes and the same hard pointed chin and 
 lean jaws. The third man was shorter and broader, 
 and wore a newer hunting shirt than his fellows and a 
 broad belt of wool and leather. 
 
 This last stretched his moccasins to the blaze and 
 sent thin rings of smoke from his lips Into the steam 
 made by the falling rain. 
 
 He bitterly and compendiously cursed the weather. 
 The little party had some reason for ill-temper. There 
 had been an accident in the creek with the powder sup- 
 ply, and for the moment there were only two charges 
 left in the whole outfit. Hitherto they had been living 
 on ample supplies of meat, though they were on short 
 rations of journey-cake, for their stock of meal was 
 low. But that night they had supped poorly, for one 
 of them had gone out to perch a turkey, since powder 
 could not be wasted, and had not come back. 
 
 "I reckon we're the first as ever concluded to winter 
 in Kaintuckee," he said between his puffs. "Howard 
 and Sailing went in in June, I've heerd. And Finley? 
 What about. Finley, Dan'l?" 
 
 "He never stopped beyond the fall, though he was 
 once near gripped by the snow. But there ain't no 
 reason why winter should be worse on the 0-hio than 
 on the Yadkin. It's a good hunting time, and snow'U 
 keep the redskins quiet. What's bad for us is wuss for 
 them, says I. ... I won't worry about winter nor 
 redskins, if old Jim Lovelle 'ud fetch up. It beats me 
 whar the man has got to." 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 229 
 
 "Wandered, maybe?" suggested the first speaker, 
 whose name was Neely. 
 
 "I reckon not. Ye'd as soon wander a painter. 
 There ain't no sech hunter as Jim ever came out of 
 Virginny, no, nor out of Caroliny, neither. It was him 
 that fust telled me of Kaintuck'. 'The dark and bloody 
 land, the Shawnees calls it,' he says, speakin' in his 
 eddicated way, and dark and bloody it is, but that's 
 man's doing and not the Almighty's. The land flows 
 with milk and honey, he says, clear water and miles of 
 clover and sweet grass, enough to feed all the herds 
 of Basham, and mighty forests with trees that thick ye 
 could cut a hole in their trunks and drive a waggon 
 through, and sugar-maples and plums and cherries like 
 you won't see in no set orchard, and black soil fair 
 crying for crops. And the game, Jim says, wasn't to 
 be told about without ye wanted to be called a liar — 
 big black-nosed buffaloes that packed together so the 
 whole placed seemed moving, and elk and deer and 
 bar past counting. . . . Wal, neighbours, ye've seen it 
 with your own eyes and can jedge if Jim was a true 
 prophet. I'm Moses, he used to say, chosen to lead 
 the Children of Israel into a promised land, but I 
 reckon I'll leave my old bones on some Pisgah-top on 
 the borders. He was a sad man, Jim, and didn't look 
 for much comfort this side Jordan. ... I wish I 
 know'd whar he'd gotten to." 
 
 Squire Boone, the speaker's brother, sniffed the air 
 dolefully. "It's weather that 'ud wander a good 
 hunter." 
 
 "I tell ye, ye couldn't wander Jim," said his brother 
 fiercely. "He come into Kaintuckee alone in '52, and 
 that was two years before Finley. He was on the 
 Ewslip all the winter of '58. He was alius springing 
 out of a bush when ye didn't expect him. When we 
 
230 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 was fighting the Cherokees with Montgomery in '6i 
 he turned up as guide to the Scotsmen, and I reckon if 
 they'd attended to him there 'ud be more of them alive 
 this day. He was like a lone wolf, old Jim, and pre- 
 ferred to hunt by hisself, but you never knowed that 
 he wouldn't come walking in and say 'Howdy' while 
 you was reckoning you was the fust white man to make 
 that trace. Wander Jim? Ye might as well speak of 
 wandering a hakk." 
 
 "Maybe the Indians have got his sculp," said Neely. 
 
 "I reckon not," said Boone. "Leastways if they 
 have, he must ha' struck a new breed of redskin. Jim 
 was better nor any redskin in Kaintuck', and they 
 knowed it. I told ye, neighbours, of our doings before 
 you come west through the Gap. The Shawnees 
 cotched me and Jim in a cane-brake, and hit our trace 
 back to camp, so that they cotched Finley too, and his 
 three Yadkiners with him. Likewise they took our 
 bosses, and guns and traps and the furs we had gotten 
 from three months' hunting. Their chief made a 
 speech saying we had no right in Kaintuckee and if they 
 cotched us again our lives 'ud pay for it. They'd ha' 
 sculped us if it hadn't been for Jim, but you could see 
 they knew him, and was feared of him. Wal, Finley 
 reckoned the game was up, and started back with the 
 Yadkiners. Cooley and Joe Holden and Mooney — ^ye 
 mind them. Squire ! But I was feeling kinder cross and 
 wanted my property back, and old Jim — ^why, he 
 wasn't going to be worsted by no redskins. So we 
 trailed the Shawnees, us two, and come up with them 
 one night encamped beside a salt-lick. Jim got into 
 their camp while I was lying shivering in the cane, and 
 blessed if he didn't snake back four of our bosses and 
 our three best Deckards. Thar's craft for ye. By 
 sunrise we was riding south on the Warriors' Path but 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 231 
 
 the hosses was plumb tired, and afore midday them 
 pizonous Shawnees had cotched up with us. I can tell 
 ye, neighbours, the hair riz on my head, for I expected 
 nothing better than a bloody sculp and six feet of 
 earth. . . . But them redskins didn't hurt us. And 
 why, says ye ? 'Cos they was scared of Jim. It seemed 
 they had a name for him in Shawnee which meant the 
 'old wolf that hunts by night.' They started out to 
 take us way north of the Ohio to their Scioto villages, 
 whar they said we would be punished. Jim telled me 
 to keep up my heart, for he reckoned we wasn't going 
 north of no river. Then he started to make friends 
 with them redskins, and in two days he was the most 
 pop'lar fellow in that company. He was a quiet man 
 and for general melancholious, but I guess he could be 
 amusing when he wanted to. You know the way an 
 Indian laughs — grunts in his stomach and looks at the 
 ground. Wal, Jim had them grunting all day, and, 
 seeing he could speak all their tongues, he would talk 
 serious too. Ye could see them savages listening, like 
 he was their own sachem." 
 
 Boone reached for another faggot and tossed It on 
 the fire. The downpour was slacking, but the wind had 
 risen high and was wailing in the sycamores. 
 
 "Consekince was," he went on, "for prisoners we 
 wasn't proper guarded. By the fourth day we was 
 sleeping round the fire among the Shawnees and march- 
 ing with them as we pleased, though we wasn't allowed 
 to go near the hosses. On the seventh night we saw 
 the Ohio rolling in the hollow, and Jim says to me it 
 was about time to get quit of the redskins. It was a 
 wet night with a wind, which suited his plan, and about 
 one in the morning, when Indians sleep soundest, I was 
 woke by Jim's hand pressing my wrist. Wal, I've 
 trailed a bit in my day, but I never did such mighty 
 
232 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 careful hunting as that night. An inch at a time we 
 crawled out of the circle — we was lying well back on 
 purpose — and got into the canes. I lay there while 
 Jim went back and fetched guns and powder. The 
 Lord knows how he done it without starthng the 
 bosses. Then we quit like ghosts, and legged it for the 
 hills. We was aiming for the Gap, but it took us 
 thirteen days to make it, travelling mostly by night, 
 and living on berries, for we durstn't risk a shot. Then 
 we made up with you. I reckon we didn't look too 
 pretty when ye see'd us first." 
 
 "Ye looked," said his brother soberly, "like two 
 scare-crows that had took to walkin'. There was more 
 naked skin than shirt about you, Dan'l. But Lovelle 
 wasn't complaining, except about his empty belly." 
 
 "He was harder nor me, though twenty years older. 
 He did the leading, too, for he had forgotten more 
 about woodcraft than I ever know'd. . . ." 
 
 The man Neely, who was from Virginia, consumed 
 tobacco as steadily as a dry soil takes in water. 
 
 "I've heerd of this Lovelle," he said. "I've seed 
 him too, I guess. A long man with black eyebrows 
 and hollow eyes like as he was hungry. He used ter 
 live near my folks in Palmer County. What was he 
 looking for in those travels of his?" 
 
 "Hunting maybe," said Boone. "He was the skil- 
 fuUest hunter, I reckon, between the Potomac and the 
 Cherokee. He brought in mighty fine pelts, but he 
 didn't seem to want money. Just sb much as would 
 buy him powder and shot and food for the next ven- 
 ture, ye understand. . . . He wasn't looking for land 
 to settle on, neither, for one time he telled me he had 
 had all the settling he wanted in this world. . . . But 
 he was looking for something else. He never talked 
 about it, but he'd sit often with his knees hunched up 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 233 
 
 and his eyes staring out at nothing hke a bird's. I 
 never know'd who he was or whar he come from. You 
 say it was Virginny?" 
 
 "Aye, Palmer County. I mind his old dad, who 
 farmed a bit of land by Nelson's Cross Roads, when 
 he wasn't drunk in Nelson's tavern. The boys 
 used to follow him to laugh at his queer clothes, and 
 hear his fine London speech when he cursed us. By 
 thunder, he was the one to swear. Jim Lovelle used 
 to clear us off with a whip, and give the old man his 
 arm into the shack. Jim too was a queer one, but it 
 didn't do to make free with him, unless ye was lookin' 
 for a broken head. They was come of high family, 
 I've heerd." 
 
 "Aye, Jim was a gentleman and no mistake," said 
 Boone. "The way he held his head and looked straight 
 through the man that angered him. I reckon it was 
 that air of his and them glowering eyes that made him 
 powerful with the redskins. But he was mighty quiet 
 always. I've seen Cap'n Evan Shelby roaring at him 
 like a bull and Jim just staring back at him, as gentle 
 as a girl, till the Cap'n began to stutter and dried up. 
 But, Lordy, he had a pluck in a fight, for I've seen him 
 with Montgomery. . . . He was eddicated too, and 
 could tell you things out of books. I've knowed him 
 sit up all night talking law with Mr. Robertson. . . . 
 He was always thinking. Queer thoughts they was 
 sometimes." 
 
 "Whatten kind of thoughts, Dan'l?" his brother ■ 
 asked. 
 
 Boone rubbed his chin as if he found it hard to 
 explain. "About this country of Ameriky," he replied. 
 "He reckoned it would soon have to cut loose from 
 England, and him knowing so much about England I 
 used ter believe him. He allowed there 'ud be bloody 
 
234 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 battles before it happened, but he held that the country 
 had grown up and couldn't be kept much longer in short 
 clothes. He had a power of larning about things that 
 happened to folks long ago called Creeks and Rewmans 
 that pinted that way, he said. But he held that when 
 we had fought our way quit of England, we was in foi' 
 a bigger and bloodier fight among ourselves. I mind 
 his very words. 'Dan'l,' he says, 'this is the biggest 
 and best slice of the world which we Americans has 
 struck, and for fifty years or more, maybe, we'll be 
 that busy finding out what we've got that we'll have no 
 time to quarrel. But there's going to come a day, if 
 Ameriky's to be a great nation, when she'll have to sit 
 down and think and make up her mind about one or two 
 things. It won't be easy, for she won't have the 
 eddication or patience to think deep, and there'll be 
 plenty selfish and short-sighted folk that won't think 
 at all. I reckon she'll have to set her house in order 
 with a hickory stick. But if she wins through that all 
 right, she'll be a country for our children to be proud 
 of and happy in.' " 
 
 "Children? Has he any belongings?" Squire Boone 
 asked. 
 
 Daniel looked puzzled. "I've heerd it said he had 
 a wife, though he never telled me of her." 
 
 "I've seed her," Neely put in. "She was one of 
 Jake Early's daughters up to Walsing Springs. She 
 didn't live no more than a couple of years after they 
 was wed. She left a gal behind her, a mighty fine- 
 looking gal. They tell me she's married on young Abe 
 Hanks. I did hear that Abe was thinking of coming 
 west, but them as told me allowed that Abe hadn't got 
 the right kinder wife for the Border. Polly Hanker 
 they called her, along of her being Polly Hanks, and 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 235 
 
 likewise wantin' more than other folks had to get along 
 with. See?" 
 
 This piece of news woke Daniel Boone to attention. 
 "Tell me about Jim's gal," he demanded. 
 
 "Pretty as a peach," said Neely. "Small, not higher 
 nor Abe's shoulder, and as light on her feet as a deer. 
 She had a softish laughing look in her eyes that made 
 the lads wild for her. But she wasn't for them and 
 I reckon she wasn't for Abe neither. She was nicely 
 ^ eddicated, though she had jest had field-schooling like 
 the rest, for her dad used to read books and tell her 
 about 'em. One time he took her to Richmond for the 
 better part of a winter, where she larned dancing and 
 music. The neighbours allowed that turned her head. 
 Ye couldn't please her with clothes, for she wouldn't 
 look at the sun-bonnets and nettle-linen that other gals 
 wore. She must have a neat little bonnet and send to 
 town for pretty dresses. . . . The women couldn't 
 abide her, for she had a high way of looking at 'em and 
 talking at 'em as if they was jest black trash. But 
 the men 'ud walk miles to see her on a Sunday. . . . 
 I never could jest understand why she took Abe Hanks. 
 'Twasn't for lack of better offers." 
 
 "I reckon that's women's ways," said Boone medi- 
 tatively. "She must ha' favoured Jim, though he 
 wasn't partickler about his clothes. Discontented, ye 
 say she was?" 
 
 "Aye. Discontented. She was meant for a fine 
 lady, I reckon. I dunno what she wanted, but anyhow 
 it was something that Abe Hanks ain't likely to give 
 her. I can't jest pictur her in Kaintuck' !" 
 
 Squire Boone was asleep, and Daniel drew the flap 
 of his buffalo robe over his head and prepared to 
 follow suit. His last act was to sniff the air. "Please 
 
236 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 God the weather mends," he muttered. "I've got to 
 find old Jim." 
 
 Very early next morning there was a consultation. 
 Lovelle had not appeared and hunting was impossible 
 on two shoots of powder. It was arranged that two 
 of them should keep camp that day by the limestoae 
 cliff while Daniel Boone went in search of the missing 
 man, for it was possible that Jim Lovelle had gone 
 to seek ammunition from friendly Indians. If he did 
 not turn up or If he returned without powder, there 
 would be nothing for it but to send a messenger back 
 through the Gap for supplies. 
 
 The dawn was blue and cloudless and the air had 
 the freshness of a second spring. The autumn colour 
 glowed once more, only a little tarnished; the gold 
 was now copper, the scarlet and vermilion were dulling 
 to crimson. Boone took the road at the earliest light 
 and made for the place where the day before he had 
 parted from Lovelle. When alone he had the habit 
 of talking to himself in an undertone. "Jim was 
 hunting down the west bank of that there crick, and 
 I heard a shot about noon beyond them big oaks, so 
 I reckon he'd left the water and gotten on the ridge." 
 He picked up the trail and followed it with difEculty, 
 for the rain had flattened out the prints. At one point 
 he halted and considered. "That's queer," he mut- 
 tered. "Jim was running here. It wasn't game, 
 neither, for there's no sign of their tracks." He 
 pointed to the zig-zag of moccasin prints in a patch of 
 gravel. "That's the way a man sets his feet when he's 
 in a hurry." 
 
 A little later he stood and sniffed, with his brows 
 wrinkled. He made an epic figure as he leaned for- 
 ward, every sense strained, every muscle alert, slim and 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 237 
 
 shapely as a Greek — the eternal pathfinder. Very 
 gently he smelled the branches of a mulberry thicket. 
 
 "There's been an Indian here," he meditated. "I 
 kinder smell the grease on them twigs. In a hurry, 
 too, or he wouldn't have left his stink behind. ... In 
 war trim, I reckon." And he took a tiny wisp of scar- 
 let feather from a fork. 
 
 Like a hound he nosed about the ground till he 
 found something. "Here's his print," he said. "He 
 was a-foUowin' Jim, for see ! he has his foot in Jim's 
 track. I don't like it. I'm fear'd of what's comin'." 
 
 Slowly and painfully he traced the footing, which 
 led through the thicket towards a long ridge running 
 northward. In an open grassy place he almost cried 
 out. "The redskin and Jim was friends. See, here's 
 their prints side by side, going slow. What in thunder 
 was old Jim up to ?" 
 
 The trail was plainer now, and led along the scarp 
 of the ridge to a little promontory which gave a great 
 prospect over the flaming forests and yellow glades. 
 Boone found a crinkle of rock where he flung himself 
 down. "It's plain enough," he said. "They come up 
 here to spy. They were fear'd of something, and 
 whatever it was it was coming from the west. See, 
 they kep' under the east side of this ridge so as not to 
 be seen, and they settled down to spy whar they 
 couldn't be obsarved from below. I reckon Jim and 
 the redskin had a pretty good eye for cover." 
 
 He examined every inch of the eyrie, snifilng like- 
 a pointer dog. "I'm plumb puzzled about this red- 
 skin," he confessed. "Shawnee, Cherokee, Chickasaw 
 — it ain't likely Jim would have dealings with 'em. It 
 might be one of them Far Indians." 
 
 It appeared as if Lovelle had spent most of the 
 previous afternoon on the ridge, for he found the 
 
238 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 remains of his night's fire half way down the north 
 side in a hollow thatched with vines. It was now 
 about three o'clock. Boone, stepping delicately, ex- 
 amined the ashes, and then sat himself on the ground 
 and brooded. 
 
 When at last he lifted his eyes his face was per- 
 plexed. 
 
 "I can't make it out nohow. Jim and this Indian 
 was good friends. They were feelin' pretty safe, for 
 they made a mighty careless fire and didn't stop to 
 tidy it up. But likewise they was restless, for they 
 started out long before morning. ... I read it this 
 way. Jim met a redskin that he knowed before and 
 thought he could trust anyhow, and he's gone off with 
 him seeking powder. It'd be like Jim to dash off alone 
 and play his hand like that. He figured he'd come 
 back to us with what we needed and that we'd have 
 the sense to wait for him. I guess that's right. But 
 I'm uneasy about the redskin. If he's from north of 
 the river, there's a Mingo camp somewhere about and 
 they've gone there. ... I never had much notion of 
 Seneca Indians, and I reckon Jim's took a big risk." 
 
 All evening he followed the trail, which crossed the 
 low hills into the corn-brakes and woodlands of a 
 broader valley. Presently he saw that he had been 
 right, and that Lovelle and the Indian had begun their 
 journey in the night, for the prints showed like those 
 of travellers in darkness. Before sunset Boone grew 
 very anxious. He found traces converging, till a clear 
 path was worn in the grass like a regulation war trail. 
 It was not one of the known trails, so it had been made 
 for a purpose ; he found on tree trunks the tiny blazons 
 of the scouts who had been sent ahead to survey it. It 
 was a war party of Mingos, or whoever they might be, 
 and he did not like it. He was puzzled to know what 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 239 
 
 purchase Jim could have with those outland folk. . . . 
 And yet he had been on friendly terms with the scout 
 he had picked up. . . . Another fact disturbed him. 
 Lovelle's print had been clear enough till the other 
 Indians joined him. The light was bad, but now that 
 print seemed to have disappeared. It might be due to 
 the general thronging of marks in the trail, but it 
 might be that Jim was a prisoner, trussed and helpless. 
 
 He supped off cold jerked bear's meat and slept 
 two hours In the canes, waiting on the moonrise. He 
 had bad dreams, for he seemed to hear drums beating 
 the eerie tattoo which he remembered long ago in 
 Border raids. He woke in a sweat, and took the road 
 again in the moonlight. It was not hard to follow, 
 and it seemed to be making north for the Ohio. Dawn 
 came on him in a grassy bottom, beyond which lay low 
 hills that he knew alone separated him from the great 
 river. Once in the Indian Moon of Blossom he had 
 been thus far, and had gloried in the riches of the 
 place, where a man walked knee deep in honeyed 
 clover. "The dark and bloody land!" He remem- 
 bered how he had repeated the name to himself, and 
 had concluded that Lovelle had been right and that 
 it was none of the Almighty's giving. Now in the 
 sharp autumn morning he felt its justice. A cloud had 
 come over his cheerful soul. "If only I knowed about 
 Jim," he muttered. "I wonder if I'll ever clap eyes on 
 his old face again." Never before had he known such 
 acute anxiety. Pioneers are wont to trust each other, 
 and in their wild risks assume that the odd chance is 
 on their side. But now black forebodings possessed 
 him, born not of reasoning but of instinct. His com- 
 rade somewhere just ahead of him was in deadly peril. 
 
 And then came the drums. 
 
 The sound broke into the still dawn with a harsh 
 
240 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 challenge. They were war drums, beaten as he re- 
 membered them in Montgomery's campaign. He 
 quickened his steady hunter's lope into a run, and left 
 the trail for the thickets of the hill-side. The camp 
 was less than a mile ofF and he was taking no chances. 
 
 As he climbed the hill the drums grew louder, till it 
 seemed that the whole world rocked with their noise. 
 He told himself feverishly that there was nothing to 
 fear; Jim was with friends, who had been south of the 
 river on their own business and would give him the 
 powder he wanted. Presently they would be returning 
 to the camp together, and in the months to come he 
 and Jim would make that broad road through the Gap, 
 at the end of which would spring up smiling farmsteads 
 and townships of their own naming. He told himself 
 these things, but he knew that he hed. 
 
 At last, flat on the earth, he peered through the 
 vines on the north edge of the ridge. Below him, half 
 a mile off, rolled the Ohio, a little swollen by the rains. 
 There was a broad ford, and the waters had spilled out 
 over the fringe of sand. Just under him, between the 
 bluff and the river, lay the Mingo camp, every Retail 
 of it plain in the crisp weather. 
 
 In the heart of it a figure stood bound to a stake, 
 and a smoky fire burned at its feet. . . . There was 
 no mistaking that figure. 
 
 Boone bit the grass in a passion of fury. His first 
 impulse was to rush madly into the savages' camp and 
 avenge his friend. He had half risen to his feet when 
 his reason told him it was folly. He had no weapon 
 but axe and knife, and would only add another scalp 
 to their triumph. His Deckard was slung on his back, 
 but he had no powder. Oh, to be able to send a bullet 
 through Jim's head to cut short his torment! In all 
 
IN THE DARK LAND 241 
 
 his life he had never known such mental ainguish, wait- 
 ing there an impotent witness of the agony of his 
 friend. The blood trickled from his bitten lips and a 
 film was over his eyes. . . . Lovelle was dying for 
 him and the others. He saw it all with bitter clear- 
 ness. Jim had been inveigled to the Mingo camp, 
 taking risks as he always did, and there been ordered 
 to reveal the whereabouts of the hunting party. He 
 had refused, and endured the ordeal. . . Memories of 
 their long comradeship rushed through Boone's mind, 
 and set him weeping in a fury of affection. There was 
 never such a man as old Jim, so trusty and wise and 
 kind, and now that great soul was being tortured out 
 of that stalwart body and he could only look on like a 
 baby and cry. 
 
 As he gazed, it became plain that the man at the 
 stake was dead. His head had fallen on his chest, and 
 the Indians were cutting the green withies that bound 
 him. Boone looked to see them take his scalp, and so 
 wild was his rage that his knees were already bending 
 for the onslaught which should be the death of him 
 and haply of one or two of the murderers. 
 
 But no knife was raised. The Indians seemed to 
 consult together, and one of them gave an order. 
 Deerskins were brought and the body was carefully 
 wrapped In them and laid on a litter of branches. 
 Their handling of it seemed almost reverent. The 
 camp was moving, the horses were saddled, and pres- 
 ently the whole band began to file off towards the ford. 
 The sight held Boone motionless. His fury had gone, 
 and only wonder and awe remained. As they passed 
 the dead each Indian raised his axe in salute — the sa- 
 lute to a great chief. The next minute they were 
 splashing through the ford. 
 
242 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 An hour later, when the invaders had disappeared 
 on the northern levels, Boone slipped down from the 
 bluff to the camping place. He stood still a long time 
 by his friend, taking off his deerskin cap, so that his 
 long black hair was blown over his shoulders. 
 
 "Jim, boy," he said softly. "I reckon you was the 
 general of us all. The likes of you won't come again. 
 I'd like ye to have Christian burial." 
 
 With his knife he hollowed a grave, where he placed 
 the body, srill wrapped in its deerskins. He noted on a 
 finger of one hand a gold ring, a queer possession for 
 a backwoodsman. This he took off and dropped into 
 the pouch which hung round his neck. "I reckon it'd 
 better go to Mis' Hanks. Jim's gal 'ud vally it mor'n 
 a wanderin' coyote." 
 
 When he had filled in the earth he knelt among the 
 grasses and repeated the Lord's Prayer as well as he 
 could remember it. Then he stood up and rubbed 
 with his hard brown knuckles the dimness from his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Ye was alius lookin' for something, Jim," he said. 
 "I guess ye've found it now. Good luck to ye, old 
 comrade." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE LAST STAGE 
 
 A SMALL boy crept into the darkened hut. The 
 -^*- unglazed windows were roughly curtained with 
 skins, but there was sufficient light from the open door- 
 way to show him what he wanted. He tiptoed to a 
 corner where an old travelling trunk lay under a pile 
 of dirty clothes. He opened it very carefully, and 
 after a little searching found the thing he sought. 
 Then he gently closed it, and, with a look towards the 
 bed in the other corner, he slipped out again into the 
 warm October afternoon. 
 
 The woman on the bed stirred uneasily and suddenly 
 became fully awake, after the way of those who are 
 fluttering very near death. She was still young, and 
 the little face among the coarse homespun blankets 
 looked almost childish. Heavy masses of black hair 
 lay on the pillow, and the depth of its darkness in- 
 creased the pallor of her brow. But the cheeks were 
 flushed, and the deep hazel eyes were burning with a 
 slow fire. . . . For a week the milk-sick fever had 
 raged furiously, and in the few hours free from de- 
 lirium she had been racked with omnipresent pain and 
 deadly sickness. Now those had gone, and she was 
 drifting out to sea on a tide of utter weakness. Her 
 husband, Tom Linkhom, thought she mending, and 
 was even now whistling — the first time for weeks — ^by 
 the woodpile. But the woman knew that she was 
 close to the great change, and so deep was her weari- 
 
 243 
 
244 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 ness that the knowledge remained an instinct rather 
 than a thought. She was as passive as a dying animal. 
 
 The cabin was built of logs, mortised into each other 
 — triangular in shape, with a fireplace in one corner. 
 Beside the fire stood a table made of a hewn log, on 
 which lay some pewter dishes containing the remains of 
 the last family meal. One or two three-legged stools 
 made up the rest of the furniture, except for the trunk 
 in the corner and the bed. This bed was Tom Link- 
 horn's pride, which he used to boast about to his 
 friends, for he was a tolerable carpenter. It was made 
 of plank stuck between the logs of the wall, and sup- 
 ported at the other end by crotched sticks. By way 
 of a curtain top a hickory post had been sunk in the 
 floor and bent over the bed, the end being fixed in the 
 log wall. Tom meant to have a fine skin curtain fas- 
 tened to it when winter came. The floor was of beaten 
 earth, but there was a rough ceiling of smaller logs, 
 with a trap in it which could be reached by pegs studc 
 in the centre post. In that garret the children slept. 
 Tom's building zeal had come to an end with the 
 bed. Some day he meant to fit in a door and windows, 
 but these luxuries could wait till he got his clearing in 
 better order. 
 
 On a stool by the' bed stood a wooden bowl con- 
 taining gruel. The woman had not eaten for days, 
 and the stuff had a thick scum, on it. The place was 
 very stuffy, for it was a hot and sickly autumn day and 
 the skins which darkened the window holes kept out 
 the little freshness that was in the air. Beside the 
 gruel was a tin pannikin of cold water which the boy 
 Abe fetched every hour from the spring. She saw 
 the water, but was too weak to reach it. 
 
 The shining doorway was blocked by a man's en- 
 trance. Tom Linkhorn was a little over middle 
 height, with long muscular arms, and the corded neck 
 
THE LAST STAGE 245 
 
 sinews which tell of great strength. He had a shock 
 of coarse black hair, grey eyes and a tired sallow face, 
 as of one habitually overworked and underfed. His 
 jaw was heavy, but loosely put together, so that he 
 presented an air af weakness and irresolution. His 
 lips were thick and pursed in a kind of weary good 
 humour. He wore an old skin shirt and a pair of tow- 
 linen pants, which flapped about his bare brown ankles. 
 A fine sawdust coated his hair and shoulders, for he 
 had been working in the shed where he eked out his 
 farming by making spinning wheels for his neighbours. 
 
 He came softly to the bedside and looked down at 
 his wife. His face was gentle and puzzled. 
 
 "Reckon you're better, dearie," he said in a curious 
 harsh toneless voice. 
 
 The sick woman moved her head feebly in the direc- 
 tion of the stool and he lifted the pannikin of water 
 to her lips. 
 
 "Cold enough?" he asked, and his wife nodded. 
 "Abe fetches it as reg'lar as a clock." 
 
 "Where's Abe?" she asked, and her voice for all its 
 feebleness had a youthful music in it. 
 
 "I heerd him sayin' he was goin' down to the crick 
 to cotch a fish. He reckoned you'd fancy a fish when 
 you could eat a piece. He's a mighty thoughtful boy, 
 our Abe. Then he was comin' to read to you. You'd 
 like that, dearie?" 
 
 The sick woman made no sign. Her eyes were va- 
 cantly regarding the doorway. 
 
 "I've got to leave you now. I reckon I'll borrow 
 the Dawneys' sorrel horse and ride into Gentryville. 
 I've got the young hogs to sell, and I'll fetch back the 
 corn-meal from Hickson's. Sally Hickson was just 
 like you last fall, and I want to find out from Jim how 
 she got her strength up." 
 
 He put a hand on her brow, and felt it cool. 
 
246 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "Glory I You're mendin' fast, Nancy gal. You'll be 
 well in time to can the berries that the childern's 
 picked." He fished from below the bed a pair of skin 
 brogues and slipped them on his feet. "I'll be back 
 before night." 
 
 "I want Abe," she moaned. 
 
 "I'll send him to you," he said as he went out. 
 
 Left alone the woman lay still for a little in a stupor 
 of weariness. Waves of that terrible lassitude, which 
 is a positive anguish and not a mere absence of strength, 
 flowed over her. The square of the doorway, which 
 was directly before her eyes, began to take strange 
 forms. It was filled with yellow sunlight, and a red 
 glow beyond told of the sugar-maples at the edge of 
 the clearing. Now It seemed to her unquiet sight to be 
 a furnace. Outside the world was burning; she could 
 feel the heat of it In the close cabin. For a second 
 acute fear startled her weakness. It passed, her eyes 
 cleared, and she saw the homely doorway as It was, 
 and heard the gobble of a turkey in the forest. 
 
 The fright had awakened her mind and senses. For 
 the first time she fully realised her condition. life 
 no longer moved steadily In her body; It flickered and 
 wavered and would soon gutter out. . . . Her eyes 
 marked every detail of the squalor around her — ^the 
 unwashed dishes, the foul earthen floor, the rotting 
 apple pile, the heap of rags which had been her only 
 clothes. She was leaving the world, and this was all 
 she had won from It. Sheer misery forced a sigh 
 which seemed to rend her frail body, and her eyes filled 
 with tears. She had been a dreamer, an adept at 
 make-believe, but the poor coverings she had wrought 
 for a dingy reality were now too threadbare to hide 
 it. . . . 
 
 And once she had been so rich In hope. She would 
 make her husband a great man, and — ^when that was 
 
THE LAST STAGE 247 
 
 manifestly impossible without a rebirth of Tom Link- 
 horn — she would have a son who would wear a black 
 coat like Lawyer Macneil and Colonel Hardin way 
 back in Kentucky, and make fine speeches beginning 
 "Fellow countrymen and gentlemen of this famous 
 State." She had a passion for words, and sonorous 
 phrases haunted her memory. She herself would have 
 a silk gown and a bonnet with roses in it; once long 
 ago she had been to Elizabethtown and seen just such 
 a gown and bonnet. . . . Or Tom would be success- 
 ful in this wild Indiana country and be, like Daniel 
 Boone, the father of a new State, and have places and 
 towns called for him — a Nancyville perhaps or a Link- 
 horn County. She knew about Daniel Boone, for 
 her grandfather Hanks had been with him. . . . And 
 there had been other dreams, older dreams, dating far 
 back to the days when she was a little ^rl with eyes 
 like a brown owl. Someone had told her fairy-tales 
 about princesses and knights, strange beings which she 
 never quite understood, but of w'hich she made marvel- 
 lous pictures in her head. She had learned to 
 read in order to follow up the doings of those queer 
 bright folk, but she had never tracked them down 
 again. But one book she had got called The Pilgrim's 
 Progress, printed by missionaries In a far-away city 
 called Philadelphia, which told of things as marvellous, 
 and had pictures, too — one especially of a young man 
 covered with tin, which she supposed was what they 
 called armour. And there was another called The 
 Arabian Nights, a close-printed thing difficult to read 
 by the winter fire, full of wilder doings than any she 
 could Imagine for herself; but beautiful, too, and deli- 
 cious to muse over, though Tom, when she read a chap- 
 ter to him, had condemned it as a pack of lies. . . . 
 Clearly there was a world somewhere, perhaps outside 
 America altogether, far more wonderful than even 
 
248 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 the magnificence of Colonel Hardin. Once she had 
 hoped to find it herself; then that her children should 
 find it. And the end was this shack in the wilderness, 
 a few acres of rotting crops, bitter starving winters, 
 summers of fever, the deeps of poverty, a penniless 
 futureless family, and for herself a coffin of green lum- 
 ber and a yard or two of stony soil. 
 
 She saw everything now with the clear unrelenting 
 eyes of childhood. The films she had woven for self- 
 protection were blown aside. She was dying — she had 
 often wondered how she should feel when dying- 
 humble and trustful, she had hoped, for she was relig- 
 ious after a fashion, and had dreamed herself into an 
 affection for a kind fatherly God. But now all that 
 had gone. She was bitter, like one defrauded. She 
 had been promised something, and had struggled on 
 in the assurance of it. And the result was nothing 
 — nothing. Tragic tears filled her eyes. She had 
 been so hungry, and there was to be no satisfying that 
 hunger this side the grave or beyond it. She was 
 going the same way as Betsy Sparrow, a death like a 
 cow's, with nothing to show for life, nothing to leave. 
 Betsy had been a poor crushed creature, and had looked 
 for no more. But she was different. She had been 
 promised something, something fine — she couldn't re- 
 member what, or who had promised It, but it had 
 never been out of her mind. . . . 
 
 There was the ring, too. No woman in Indiana 
 had the like of that. An ugly thing, but very ancient 
 and of pure gold. Once Tom had wanted to sell it 
 when he was hard-pressed back at Nolin Creek, but 
 she had fought for it like a tigress and scared the life 
 out of Tom. Her grandfather had left it her because 
 she was his favourite and it had been her grand- 
 mother's, and long ago had come from Europe. It 
 was lucky, and could cure rheumatism if worn next 
 
THE LAST STAGE 249 
 
 the heart in a skin bag. . . . All her thoughts were 
 suddenly set on the ring, her one poor shred of for- 
 tune. She wanted to feel it on her finger, and press 
 Its cool gold with the queer markings on her eyelids. , 
 
 But Tom had gone away and -she couldn't reach 
 the trunk in the corner. Tears trickled down her 
 cheeks and through the mist of them she saw that the 
 boy Abe stood at the foot of the bed. 
 
 "Feelin' comf ortabler ?" he asked. He had a harsh 
 untunable voice, his father's, but harsher, and he spoke 
 the drawling dialect of the backwoods. ' 
 
 His figure stood in the light, so that the dying 
 mother saw only its outline. He was a boy about 
 nine years old, but growing too fast, so that he had lost 
 the grace of childhood and was already lanky and 
 ungainly. As he turned his face crosswise to the light 
 he revealed a curiously rugged profile — a big nose 
 springing sharply from the brow, a thick underhung 
 lower lip, and the beginning of a promising Adam's 
 apple. His stiff black hair fell round his great ears, 
 which stood out like the handles of a pitcher. He 
 was barefoot, and wore a pair of leather breeches and 
 a ragged homespun shirt. Beyond doubt he was ugly. 
 
 He moved round to the right side of the bed where 
 he was wholly In shadow. 
 
 "My lines is settin' nicely," he said. "I'll have a 
 fish for your supper. And then I'm goln' to take 
 dad's gun and fetch you a turkey. You could eat a 
 slice of a fat turkey, I reckon." 
 
 The woman did not answer, for she was thinking. 
 This uncouth boy was the son she had put her faith 
 in. She loved him best of all things on earth, but 
 for the moment she saw him in the hard light of dis- 
 illusionment. A loutish backwoods child, like Dennis 
 Hanks or Tom Sparrow or anybody else. He had 
 been a comfort to her, for he had been quick to leara 
 
250 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 and had a strange womanish tenderness in his ways. 
 But she was leaving him, and he would grow up like 
 his father before him to a life of ceaseless toil with 
 no daylight or honour in it. . . . She almost hated the 
 sight of him, for he was the memorial of her failure. 
 
 The boy did not guess these thoughts. He pulled 
 up a stool and sat very close to the bed, holding his 
 mother's frail wrist in a sunburnt hand so big that it 
 might have been that of a lad half-way through his 
 teens. He had learned in the woods to be neat and 
 precise in his ways, and his movements, for all his 
 gawky look, were as soft as a panther's. 
 
 "Like me to tell you a story?" he asked. "What 
 about Uncle Mord's tale of Dan'l Boone at the Blue 
 Licks Battle?" 
 
 There was no response, so he tried again. 
 
 "Or read a piece? It was the Bible last time, but 
 the words is mighty difficult. Besides, you don't need 
 it that much now. You're gettin' better. . . , Let's 
 hear about the ol' Pilgrim." 
 
 He found a squat duodecimo in the trunk, and 
 shifted the skin curtain from one of the window holes 
 to get light to read by. His mother lay very still 
 with her eyes shut, but he knew by her breathing that 
 she was not asleep. He ranged through the book, 
 stopping to study the crude pictures, and then started 
 laboriously to read the adventures of Christian and 
 Hopeful after leaving Vanity Fair — the mine of 
 Demas, the plain called Ease, Castle Doubting, and the 
 Delectable Mountains. He boggled over some of the 
 words, but on the whole he read well, and his harsh 
 voice dropped Into a pleasant sing-song. 
 
 By and by he noticed that his mother was asleep. 
 He took the tin pannikin and filled it with fresh water 
 from the spring. Then he kisssed the hand which lay 
 on the blanket, looked about guiltily to see if anyone 
 
THE LAST STAGE 251 
 
 had seen him, for kisses were rare in that household, 
 and tiptoed out again. 
 
 The woman slept, but not wholly. The doorway, 
 which was now filled with the deeper gold of the 
 westering sun, was still in her vision. It had grown 
 to a great square of Hght, and instead of being blocked 
 in the foreground by the forest it seemed to give on 
 an infinite distance. She had a sense not of looking 
 out of a hut, but of looking from without into a great 
 chamber. Peace descended on her which she had never 
 known before in her feverish dreams, peace and a 
 happy expectation. 
 
 She had not listened to Abe's reading, but some 
 words of it had caught her ear. The phrase "delect- 
 able mountains" for one. She did not know what 
 "delectable" meant, but it sounded good; and moun- 
 tains, though she had never seen more of them than 
 a far blue line, had always pleased her fancy. Now 
 she seemed to be looking at them through that magical 
 doorway. . . . The country was not like anything she 
 remembered in the Kentucky bluegrass, still less like 
 the shaggy woods of Indiana. The turf was short 
 and very green, and the hills fell into gracious folds 
 that promised homesteads in every nook of them. It 
 was a "delectable" country — ^yes, that was the meaning 
 of the word that had puzzled her. . . . She had seen 
 the picture before in her head. She remembered one 
 hot Sunday afternoon when she was a child hearing 
 a Baptist preacher discoursing on a Psalm, something 
 about the "little hills rejoicing." She had liked the 
 words and made a picture in her mind. These were 
 the little hills and they were joyful. 
 
 There was a white road running straight through 
 them till it disappeared over a crest. That was right, 
 of course. The road which the Pilgrims travelled. . . . 
 And there, too, was a Pilgrim. 
 
252 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 He was a long way off, but she could see him quite 
 clearly. He was a boy, older than Abe, but about the 
 same size — a somewhat forlorn figure, who seemed as 
 if he had a great way to go and was oppressed by the 
 knowledge of it. He had funny things on his legs 
 and feet, which were not proper moccasins. Once he 
 looked back, and she had a glimpse of fair hair. He 
 could not be any of the Hanks or Linkhorn kin, for 
 they were all dark. . . . But he had something on 
 his left arm which she recognised — a thick ring of gold. 
 It was her own ring, the ring she kept in the trunk, 
 and she smiled comfortably. She had wanted it a little 
 while ago, and now there it was before her eyes. She 
 had no anxiety about its safety, for somehow it be- 
 longed to that little boy as well as to her. 
 
 His figure moved fast and was soon out of sight 
 round a turn of the hill. And with that the landscape 
 framed in the doorway began to waver and dislimn. 
 The road was still there, white and purposeful, but 
 the environs were changing. . . . She was puzzled, 
 but with a pleasant confusion. Her mind was not on 
 the landscape, but on the people, for she was assured 
 that others would soon appear on the enchanted stage. 
 
 Again it was a boy. He ran across the road, shout- 
 ing with joy, a dog at his heels and a bow in his hand. 
 Before he disappeared she marked the ring, this time 
 on his finger. . . . He had scarcely gone ere another 
 appeared on the road, a slim pale child, dressed in some 
 stuff that gleamed like satin, and mounted on a pony. 
 . . . The spectacle delighted her, for it brought her 
 in mind of the princes she had been told of in fairy- 
 tales. And there was the ring, worn over a saffron 
 riding glove. . . . 
 
 A sudden weakness made her swoon, and out of it 
 she woke to a consciousness of the hut where she lay. 
 She had thought she was dead and in heaven among 
 
THE LAST STAGE 253 
 
 fair children, and the waking made her long for her 
 own child. Surely that was Abe in the doorway. . . . 
 No, it was a taller and older lad, oddly dressed, but he 
 had a look of Abe — something in his eyes. He was 
 on the road too, and marching purposefully — and he 
 had the ring. Even in her mortal frailty she had a 
 quickening of the heart. These strange people had 
 something to do with her, something to tell her, and 
 that something was about her son. . . . 
 
 There was a new boy in the picture. A dejected 
 child who rubbed the ring on his small breeches and 
 played with it, looking up now and then with a 
 frightened start. The woman's heart ached for him, 
 for she knew her own life-long malady. He was hun- 
 gry for something which he had small hope of finding. 
 . . . And then a wind seemed to blow out-of-doors 
 and the world darkened down to evening. But her 
 eyes pierced the gloaming easily, and she saw very 
 plain the figure of a man. 
 
 He was sitting hunched up, with his chin in his 
 hands, gazing into vacancy. Without surprise she 
 recognised something in his face that was her own. 
 He wore the kind of hunter's clothes that old folk 
 had worn in her childhood, and a long gun lay across 
 his knees. His air was sombre and wistful, and yet 
 with a kind of noble content in it. He had Abe's 
 puckered-up lips and Abe's steady sad eyes. . . . Into 
 her memory came a verse of the Scriptures which had 
 always fascinated her. "These all died in faith, not 
 having received the promises, but having seen them 
 afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced 
 them, and confessed that they were strangers and pil- 
 grims upon the earth." 
 
 She saw it all in a flash of enlightenment. These 
 seekers throughout the ages had been looking for 
 something and had not found it. But Abe, her son, 
 
254 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 was to find it. That was why she had been shown 
 those pictures. 
 
 Once again she looked through the door into bright 
 sunshine. It was a place that she knew beside the 
 Ohio — she remembered the tall poplar clump. She 
 did not see the Jacksons' farm which stood south of 
 the trees, but there was the Indian graveyard, which 
 as. a little girl she had been afraid to pass. Now it 
 seemed to be fresh made, for painted vermilion wands 
 stood about the mounds. On one of them a gold 
 trinket, tied by a loop of hide, rattled in the wind. 
 It was her ring. The seeker lay buried there with the 
 talisman' above him. 
 
 She was awake now, oblivious of the swift sinking 
 of her vital energy. She must have the ring, for it 
 was the pledge of a great glory. . . . 
 
 A breathless little girl flung herself into the cabin. 
 It was Sophy Ha,nks, one of the many nieces who 
 squattered like ducks about the settlement. 
 
 "Mammy!" she cried shrilly. "Mammy Link- 
 horn!" She stammered with the excitement of the 
 bearer of ill news. "Abe's lost your ring in the crick. 
 He took it for a sinker to his lines, for Indian Jake 
 telled him a piece of gold would cotch the grit fish. 
 And a grit fish has cotched it. Abe's bin divin' and 
 divin' and can't find it nohow. He reckons it's plumb 
 lost. Ain't he a bad 'un, Mammy Linkhorn?" 
 
 It was some time before the dying woman under- 
 stood. Then she began feebly to cry. For the mo- 
 ment her ring loomed large in her eyes: it was the 
 earnest of the promise, and without it the promise 
 might fail. She had not strength to speak or even to 
 sob, and the tears trickled over her cheeks in dumb 
 impotent misery. 
 
 She was roused by the culprit Abe. He stood be- 
 side her with his wet hair streaked into a fringe along 
 
THE LAST STAGE 255 
 
 his brow. The skin of his neck glistened wet in the 
 opening of his shirt. His cheeks too glistened, but 
 not with the water of the creek. He was crying 
 bitterly. 
 
 He had no words of explanation or defence. His 
 thick underlip stuck out and gave him the appeal of 
 a penitent dog; the tears had furrowed paler channels 
 down grimy cheeks; he was the very incarnation of 
 uncouth misery. 
 
 But his mother saw none of these things. . . . On 
 the instant he seemed to her transfigured. Something 
 she saw in him of all the generations of pleading boys 
 that had passed before her, something of the stern 
 confidence of the man over whose grave the ring had 
 fluttered. But more — far more. She was assured 
 that the day of the seekers had passed and that the 
 finder had come. . . . The young features were trans- 
 formed into the lines of a man's strength. The eyes 
 dreamed but also commanded, the loose mouth had 
 the gold of wisdom and the steel of resolution. The 
 promise had not failed her. . . . She had won every- 
 thing from life, for she had given the world a master. 
 Words seemed to speak themselves in her ear. . . . 
 "Bethink you of the blessedness. Every wife is like 
 the Mother of God and has the hope of bearing a 
 saviour of mankind." 
 
 She lay very still in her great joy. The boy in a 
 fright sprang to her side, knocking over the stool with 
 the pannikin of water. He knelt on the floor and hid 
 his face in the bed-clothes. Her hand found his 
 shaggy head. 
 
 Her voice was very faint now, but he heard it. 
 
 "Don't cry, little Abe," she said. "Don't you 
 worry about the ring, dearie. It ain't needed no more." 
 
 Half an hour later, when the cabin door was dim 
 with twilight, the hand which the boy held grew cold. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE END OF THE ROAD 
 I 
 
 \X7"HEN Edward M. Stanton was associated at 
 '^ ' Cincinnati in 1857 with Abraham Lincoln in the 
 great McCormick Reaper patent suit, it was commonly 
 assumed that this was the first time the two men had 
 met. Such was Lincoln's view, for his memory was 
 apt to have blind patches in it. But in fact there had 
 been a meeting fifteen years before, the recollection 
 of which in Stanton's mind had been so overlaid by 
 the accumulations of a busy life that it did not awake 
 till after the President's death. 
 
 In the early fall of 1842 Stanton had occasion to 
 visit Illinois. He was then twenty-five years of age, 
 and had already attained the position of leading lawyer 
 in his native town of Steubenville in Ohio and acted 
 as reporter of the Supreme Court of that State. He 
 was a solemn reserved young man, with a square fleshy 
 face and a strong ill-tempered jaw. His tight lips 
 curved downwards at the comers and, combined with 
 his bold eyes, gave him an air of peculiar shrewdness 
 and purpose. He did not forget that he came of good 
 professional stock — New England on one side and 
 Virginia on the other — and that he was college-bred, 
 unlike the common backwoods attorney. Also he was 
 resolved on a great career, with the White House at 
 the end of it, and was ready to compel all whom he met 
 to admit the justice of his ambition. The conscious- 
 
 256 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 257 
 
 ness of uncommon talent and a shining future gave 
 him a self-possession rare in a young man, and a com- 
 placence not unlike arrogance. His dress suited his 
 pretensions — the soft rich broadcloth which tailors 
 called doeskin, and linen of a fineness rare outside the 
 eastern cities. He was not popular in Ohio, but he 
 was respected for his sharp tongue, subtle brain, and 
 intractable honesty. 
 
 His business finished, he had the task of filling up 
 the evening, for he could not leave for home till the 
 morrow. His host, Mr. George Curtin, was a little 
 shy of his guest and longed profoundly to see the last 
 of him. It was obvious that this alert lawyer regarded 
 the Springfield folk as mossbacks^ — ^which might be 
 well enough for St. Louis and Chicago, but was 
 scarcely becoming in a man from Steubenville. An- 
 other kind of visitor he might have taken to a chicken- 
 fight, but one glance at Stanton barred that solution. 
 So he compromised on Speed's store. 
 
 "There's one or two prominent citizens gathered 
 there most nights," he explained. "Like as not we'll 
 find Mr. Lincoln. I reckon you've heard of Abe 
 Lincoln?" 
 
 Mr. Stanton had not. He denied the imputation 
 as if he were annoyed. 
 
 "Well, we think a mighty lot of him round here. 
 He's Judge Logan's law partner and considered one 
 of the brightest in Illinois. He's been returned to the 
 State Legislature two or three times, and he's a dandy 
 on the stump. A hot Whig and none the worse of 
 that, though I reckon them's not your politics. . . . 
 We're kind of proud of him in Sangamon county. No, 
 not a native. Rode into the town one day five years 
 back from New Salem with all his belongings in a 
 saddle-bag, and started business next morning in Joe 
 
25S THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Speed's back room. . . . He's good company, Abe, 
 for you never heard a better man to tell a story. 
 You'd die of laughing. Though I did hear he, was a 
 sad man just now along of being crossed in love, so I 
 can't promise you he'll be up to his usual, if he's at 
 Speed's to-night." 
 
 "I suppose the requirements for a western lawyer," 
 said Mr. Stanton acidly, "are a gift of buffoonery and 
 a reputation for gallantry." He was intensely bored, 
 and had small desire to make the acquaintance of pro- 
 vincial celebrities. 
 
 Mr. Curtin was offended, but could think of no suit- 
 able retort, and as they were close on Speed's store he 
 swallowed his wrath and led the way through alleys 
 of piled merchandise to the big room where the stove 
 was lighted. 
 
 It was a chilly fall night and the fire was welcome. 
 Half a do^en men sat smoking round it, with rummers 
 of reeking toddy at their elbows. They were ordinary 
 citizens of the place, and they talked of the last horse- 
 races. As the new-comers entered they were appealing 
 to a figure perched on a high barrel to deride some 
 point in dispute. 
 
 This figure climbed down from its perch, as they 
 entered, with a sort of awkward courtesy. It was a 
 very tall man, thin almost to emaciation, with long 
 arms and big hands and feet. He had a lean, power- 
 ful-looking head, marred by ugly projecting ears and 
 made shapeless by a mass of untidy black hair. The 
 brow was broad and fine, and the dark eyes set deep 
 under it; the nose, too, was good, but the chin and 
 mouth were too small for the proportions of the face. 
 The mouth, indeed, was so curiously puckered, and the 
 lower lip so thick and prominent, as to ^ve something 
 of a comic effect. Tlie skin was yellow, but stretched 
 
THE END GF THE ROAD 259 
 
 so firm and hard on the cheek bones that the sallowness 
 did not look unhealthy. The man wore an old suit 
 of blue jeans and his pantaloons did not meet his coarse 
 unblacked shoes by six inches. His scraggy throat 
 was adorned with a black neckerchief like a boot-lace. 
 
 "Abe," said Mr. Curtin, "I would like to make you 
 known to my friend Mr. Stanton of Ohio." 
 
 The queer face broke into a pleasant smile, and the 
 long man held out his hand. 
 
 "Glad to know you, Mr. Stanton," he said, and then 
 seemed to be stricken with shyness. His wandering 
 eye caught sight of a new patent churn which had just 
 been added to Mr. Speed's stock. He took two steps 
 to it and was presently deep in its mechanism. He 
 turned it all ways, knelt beside it on the floor, took 
 off the handle and examined it, while the rest of the 
 company pressed Mr. Stanton to a seat by the fire. 
 
 "I heard Abe was out at Rochester helping enter- 
 tain Ex-President Van Buren," said Mr. Curtin to the 
 store-keeper. 
 
 "I reckon he was," said Speed. "He kept them 
 roaring till morning. Judge Peck told me he allowed 
 Mr. Van Buren would be stiff for a month with laugh- 
 ing at Abe's tales. It's curious that a man who don't 
 use tobacco or whisky should be such mighty good com- 
 pany." 
 
 "I wish Abe'd keep it up," said another. "Most 
 of the time now he goes about like a sick dog. What's 
 come to him, Joe?" 
 
 Mr. Speed hushed his voice. "He's got his own 
 troubles. . . . He's a deep-feeling man, and can't for- 
 get easily like you and me. . . . But things is better 
 with him, and I kind of hope to see him wed by Thanks- 
 giving Day. . . . Look at him with that churn. He's 
 
26o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 that inquisitive he can't keep his hands off no new 
 thing." 
 
 But the long man had finished his inquiry and re- 
 joined the group by the stove. 
 
 "I thought you were a lawyer, Mr. Lincoln,V said 
 Stanton, "but you seem to have the tastes of a me- 
 chanic." 
 
 The other grinned. "I've a fancy for any kind of 
 instrument, for I was a surveyor in this county before 
 I took to law." 
 
 "George Washington also was a surveyor." 
 
 "Also, but not likewise. I don't consider I was 
 much of a hand with the compass and chains." 
 
 "It is the fashion in Illinois, I gather, for the law 
 to be the last in a series of many pursuits — the pool 
 where the driftwood from many streams comes to 
 rest." Mr. Stanton spoke with the superior air of 
 one who took his profession seriously and had been 
 trained for it in the orthodox fashion. 
 
 "It was so in my case. I've kept a post-office, and 
 I've had a store, and I've had a tavern, and I kept 
 them so darned bad that I'm still paying off the debts 
 I made in them." The long man made the confession 
 with a comic simplicity. 
 
 "There's a deal to be said for the habit," said Speed. 
 "Having followed other trades teaches a lawyer some- 
 thing about human nature. I reckon Abe wouldn't 
 be the man he is if he had studied his books all his 
 days." 
 
 "There is another side to that," said Mr. Stanton, 
 and his precise accents and well-modulated voice 
 seemed foreign in that homely place. "You are also 
 a politician, Mr. Lincoln?" 
 
 The other nodded. "Of a kind. I'm a strong 
 Henry Clay man." 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 261 
 
 "Well, there I oppose you. I'm no Whig or lover 
 of Whigs. But I'm a lover of the Constitution and 
 the law of the country, and that Constitution and that 
 country are approaching perilous times. There's ex- 
 plosive stuff about which is going to endanger the sta- 
 bility of the noble heritage we have received from our 
 fathers, and if that heritage is to be saved it can only 
 be by those who hold fast to its eternal principles. 
 This land can only be saved by its lawyers, sir. But 
 they must be lawyers profoundly read in the history 
 and philosophy of their profession, and no catchpenny 
 advocates with a glib tongue and an elastic conscience. 
 The true lawyer must approach his task with reverence 
 and high preparation; for as his calling is the noblest 
 of human activities, so it Is the most exacting." 
 
 The point-device young man spoke with a touch of 
 the schoolmaster, but his audience, who had an inborn 
 passion for fine words, were irmpressed. Lincoln sat 
 squatted on his heels on a bit of sacking, staring into 
 the open door of the stove. 
 
 "There's truth in that," he said slowly. His voice 
 had not the mellow tones of the other's, being inclined 
 to shrillness, but it gave the in»pression of great power 
 waiting on release somewhere in his massive chest. 
 "But I reckon it's only half the truth, for truth's like 
 a dollar-piece, it's got two sides, and both are wanted 
 to make it good currency. The law and the constitu- 
 tion are like a child's pants. T'hey've got to be made 
 wider and longer as the child grows so as to fit him. 
 If they're kept too ti'ght, he'll burst them ; and if you're 
 in a hurry and make them too big all at once, they'll 
 trip him up." 
 
 "Agreed," said Stanton, "but the fashion and the 
 fabric should be kept of the same good American pat- 
 tern." 
 
262 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 The long man ran a hand through his thatch 
 of hair. 
 
 "There's only one fashion in pants — to make them 
 comfortable. And some day that boy is going to grow 
 so big you won't be able to make the old ones do and 
 he'll have to get a new pair. If he's living on a farm 
 he'll want the same kind of good working pants, but 
 for all that they'll have to be new made." 
 
 Mr. Stanton laughed with some irritation. 
 
 "I hate arguing in parables, for in the nature of 
 things they can't be exact. That's a mistake you west- 
 erners make. The la<w must ' change in detail with 
 changing conditions, "but its principles cannot alter, and 
 the respect for these principles is our only safeguard 
 against a- relapse into savagery. Take slavery. 
 There are fools in the east who would abolish it by 
 act of Congress. For myself I do not love the system, 
 bitt I love anarchy and injustice less, and if you abolish 
 slavery you abolish also every right of legal property, 
 and that means chaos and barbarism. A free people 
 such as OUTS cannot thus put the knife to their throat. 
 If we were the serfs of a monarchy, accustomed to bow 
 before the bidding of a king, it might be different, but 
 a republic cannot do injustice to one section of its dti- 
 zens without destroying itself." 
 
 Lincoln had not taken his eyes from the stove. He 
 seemed to be seeing things i-n the fire, for he smiled 
 to himself. 
 
 "Well," he drawled, "I reckon that some day we 
 may have to find some sort of a king. The new pants 
 have got to be made." 
 
 Mr. Stanton shrugged his shoulders, and the other, 
 quick to detect annoyance, scrambled to his feet and 
 stood looking down from his great height at his dapper 
 antagonist. A kindly quizzical smile lit his homely 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 263 
 
 face. "We'll quit arguing, Mr. Stanton, for I admit 
 I'm afraid of you. You're some years younger than 
 me, but I expect you would have me convinced on your 
 side if we went on. And maybe I'd convince you too, 
 and then we'd be like old Jim Fletcher at New Salem. 
 You'll have heard about Jim. He had a mighty quar- 
 rel with his neighbour about a hog, Jim alleging it was 
 one of his lot and the neighbour claiming it for his. 
 Well, they argued and argued, a-nd the upshot was 
 that Jim convinced the neigbbour that the hog was 
 Jim's, and the neighbour convinced Jim that the hog 
 was the neighbour's, and neither of them would touch 
 that hog, and they were worse friends than ever." 
 
 Mr. Curtin rose and apologised to his companion. 
 He had to see a man about a .buggy and must leave 
 Mr. Stanton to find his way back alone. 
 
 "Don't worry, George," said the long man. "I'm 
 going round your way and I'll see your friend home." 
 As' Mr. Starvton professed himself ready for bed, the 
 little party by the stove broke up. Lincoln fetched 
 from a corner a dilapidated carpet-bag full of papers, 
 and an old green umbrella, handle-less, tied with string 
 about the middle, and having his name sewn inside in 
 straggling letters cut out of white muslin. He and 
 Stanton went out-of-doors into the raw autumn night. 
 
 The town lay very quiet in a thin fog made luminous 
 by a full moon. The long man walked with his feet 
 turned a little inwards, accommodating his gait to the 
 shorter stride of his companion. Mr. Stanton, having 
 recovered from his momentary annoyance, was curious 
 about this odd member of his own profession. Was it 
 possible that in the whirligig of time a future could lie 
 before one so uncouth and rustical? A democracy was 
 an unaccountable thing, and these rude westerners 
 might have to be reckoned with. 
 
264 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "You are ambitious of a poetical career, Mr. 
 Lincoln?" he asked. 
 
 The other looked down with his shy crooked smile, 
 and the Ohio lawyer suddenly realised that the man 
 had his own attractiveness. 
 
 "Why, no, sir. I shouldn't like to say I was anibi- 
 tious. I've no call to be, for the Almighty hasn't 
 blessed me with any special gifts. You're different. 
 It would be a shame to you if you didn't look high, 
 for you're a young man with all the world before you. 
 I'm getting middle-aged and I haven't done anything 
 to be proud of yet, and I reckon I won't get the chance, 
 and if I did I couldn't take advantage of it. I'm pretty 
 fond of the old country, and if she wants me, why, 
 she's only got to say so and I'll do what she tells me. 
 But I don't see any clear road I want to travel. . . ." 
 
 He broke off suddenly, and Stanton, looking up at 
 him, saw that his face had changed utterly. The pa- 
 tient humorous look had gone and it was like a tragic 
 mask, drawn and strained with suffering. They were 
 passing by the little town cemetery and, as if by some 
 instinct, had halted. 
 
 The place looked strange and pitiful in the hazy 
 moonlight. It was badly tended, and most of the 
 headstones were only of painted wood, warped and 
 buckled by the weather. But in the dimness the rows 
 of crosses and slabs seemed to extend into the far dis- 
 tance, and the moon gave them a cold, eerie whiteness, 
 as if they lay in the light of another world. A great 
 sigh came from Lincoln, and Stanton thought that 
 he had never seen on mortal countenance such infinite 
 sadness. 
 
 "Ambition!" he said. "How dare we talk of am- 
 bition, when this is the end of it? All these people — 
 decent people, kind people, once full of joy and pur- 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 265 
 
 pose, and now all forgotten! It is not the buried 
 bodies I mind, it is the buried hearts. ... I wonder 
 if it means peace. . . ." 
 
 He stood there with head bowed and he seemed to 
 be speaking to himiself. Stanton caught a phrase or 
 two and found it was verse — ^banal verses, which were 
 there and then fixed in his fly-paper memory. "Tell 
 me, my secret soul," it ran: 
 
 "Oh, tell me, Hope and Faith, 
 Is there no resting-place 
 From sorrow, sin, and death? 
 Is there no happy spot 
 Where mortals may be blessed, 
 Where grief may find a balm 
 And weariness a rest?" 
 
 The figure murmuring these lines seemed to be 
 oblivious of his companion. He stood gazing under 
 the moon, like a gaunt statue of melan-choly. Stanton 
 spoke to him but got no answer, and presently took 
 his own road home. He had no taste for histrionic 
 scenes. And as he went his way he meditated. Mad, 
 *» beyond doubt. Not without power in him, but un- 
 balanced, hysterical, alternating between buffoonery 
 and these schoolgirl emotions. He reflected that if 
 the American nation contained much stuff of this kind 
 it might prove a difficult team to drive. He was 
 thankful that he was going home next day to his or- 
 derly life. 
 
 II 
 
 Eighteen years have gone, and the lanky figure of 
 Speed's store is revealed in new surroundings. In a 
 big square room two men sat beside a table littered 
 with the debris of pens, foolscap, and torn fragments 
 of paper which marked the end of a Council. It was 
 an evening at the beginning of April, and a fire burned 
 
266 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 in the big grate. One of the two sat at the table with 
 his elbows on the mahogany, and his head supported 
 by a hand. He was a man well on in middle life with 
 a fine clean-cut face and the shapely mo-bile lips of the 
 publicist and orator. It was the face, of one habitu- 
 ated to platforms and assemblies, full of a cettain self- 
 conscious authority. But to-night its possessor seemed 
 ill at ease. His cheeks were flushed and his eye dis- 
 tracted. 
 
 The other had drawn his chair to the fire, so that one 
 side of him wa-s lit by the late spring sun and one by 
 the glow from the hearth. That figure we first saw in 
 the Springfield store had altered little in the eighteen 
 ye-ars. There was no grey in the coarse black hair, 
 but the lines in the sallow face were deeper, and there 
 were dark rings under the hollow eyes. The old suit 
 of blue jeans had gone; and he wore now a frock-coat, 
 obviously new, which was a little too full for his gaunt 
 frame. His tie, as of old, was like a boot-lace. A 
 new silk hat, with the nap badly rufiled, stood near on 
 the top of a cabinet. 
 
 He smiled rather wearily. "We're pretty near 
 through the appointments now, Mr. Secretary. It's 
 a mean business, but I'm a minority President and I've 
 got to move in zig-zags so long as I don't get off the 
 pike. I reckon that honest statesmanship is just the 
 employment of individual meannesses for the public 
 good. Mr. Sumner wouldn't agree. He calls him- 
 self the slave of principles and says he owns no other 
 master. Mr. Sumner's my notion of a bishop," 
 
 The other did not seem to be listening. "Are you 
 still set on re-enforcing Fort Sumter?" he asked, his 
 bent brows making a straight line above his eyes. 
 
 Lincoln nodded. He was searching in the- inside 
 pocket of his frock-coat, from which he extracted a 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 267 
 
 bundle of papers. Seward saw what he was after, and 
 his self-consciousness increased. 
 
 "You have read my letter?" he asked. 
 
 "I have," said Lincoln, fixing a pair of cheap spec- 
 tacles on his nose. He had paid thirty-seven cents for 
 them in Bloomington five years before. "A mighty 
 fine letter. Full of horse sense." 
 
 "You agree with it?" asked the other eagerly. 
 
 "■Why, no. I don't agree with it, but I admire it a 
 lot and -I admire its writer." 
 
 "Mr. President," said Seward solemnly, "on one 
 point I am adamant. We cannot suffer the dispute 
 to be a'bout slavery. If we fight on that issue we shall 
 have the Border States against us." 
 
 "I'm thinking all the time about the Border States. 
 We've got to keep them. If there's going to be 
 trouble I'd like to have the Almighty on my side, but 
 I must have Kentucky." 
 
 "And yet you will go forward about Sumter, which 
 is regarded by everyone as a slavery issue." 
 
 "The Issue is as God has made it. You can't go 
 past the bed-rock facts. I am the trustee for the 
 whole property of the nation, of which Sumter is a 
 piece, and if I give up one stick or stone to a rebellious 
 demand I am an unfaithful steward. Surely, Mr. Sec- 
 retary, if you want to make the issue union or disunion 
 you can't give up Sumter without fatally prejudicing 
 your case." 
 
 "It means war." 
 
 Lincoln looked again at the document in his hand. 
 "It appears that you are thinking of war in any event. 
 You want to pick a quarrel with France over Mexico 
 and with Spain over St. Domingo, and unite the nation 
 in a war against foreigners. I tell you honestly I don't 
 like the proposal. It seems to me downright wicked. 
 
268 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 If the Lord sends us war, we have got to face it like 
 men, but God forbid we should manufacture war, and 
 use it as an escape from our domestic difficulties. You 
 can't expect a blessing on that." 
 
 The Secretary of State flushed. "Have you con- 
 sidered the alternative, Mr. President?" he cried. "It 
 is civil war, war between brothers in blood. So soon as 
 the South fires a shot against Sumter the sword is un- 
 sheathed. You cannot go back then." 
 
 "I am fully aware of it. I haven't been sleeping 
 much lately, and I've been casting up my accounts. 
 It's a pretty weak balance sheet. I would like to tell 
 you the main items, Mr. Secretary, so that you may 
 see that I'm not walking this road blindfold." 
 
 The other pushed back his chair from the table with 
 a gesture of despair. But he listened. Lincoln had 
 risen and stood in front of the fire, his shoulders lean- 
 ing on the mantelpiece, and his head against the lower 
 part of the picture of George Washington. 
 
 "First," he said, "I'm a minority President, elected 
 by a minority vote of the people of the United 
 States. I wouldn't have got in if the Democrats 
 hadn't been split I haven't a majority in the Senate. 
 Yet I've got to decide for the nation and make the 
 nation follow me. Have I the people's confidence? I 
 reckon I haven't — ^yet. I haven't even got the con- 
 fidence of the Republican party." 
 
 Seward made no answer. He clearly assented. 
 
 "Next, I haven't got much in the way of talents. 
 I reckon Jeff Davis a far abler man than me. My 
 friends tell me I haven't the presence and dignity for 
 a President. My shaving-glass tells me I'm a com- 
 mon-looking fellow." He stopped and smiled. "But 
 perhaps the Lord prefers common-looking people, and 
 that's why He made so many of them. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 269 
 
 "Next," he went on, "I've a heap of critics and a 
 lot of enemies. Some good men say I've no experience 
 in Government, and that's about true. Up in New- 
 England the papers are asking who is this political 
 huckster, this county court advocate? Mr. Stanton 
 says I'm an imbecile, and when he's cross calls me the 
 original gorilla, and wonders why fools wander about 
 in Africa when they could find the beast they are look- 
 ing for in Washington. The pious everywhere don't 
 like me, because I don't hold that national policy can 
 be run on the lines of a church meeting. And the Rad- 
 icals are looking for me with a gun, because I'm not 
 prepared right here and now to abolish slavery. One 
 of them calls me 'the slave hound of Illinois.' I'd like 
 to meet that man, for I guess he must be a humorist." 
 
 Mr. Seward leaned forward and spoke earnestly. 
 "Mr. President, no man values your great qualities 
 more than I do or reprobates more heartily such vulgar 
 libels. But it is true that you lack executive experi- 
 ence. I have been the Governor of the biggest State 
 in the Union, and possess some knowledge of the task. 
 It is all at your service. Will you not allow me to 
 ease your burden?" 
 
 Lincoln smiled down kindly upon the other. "I 
 thank you with all my heart. You have touched on 
 that matter in your letter. . . . But, Mr. Secretary, 
 in the inscrutable providence of God it is I who have 
 been made President. I cannot shirk the duty. I look 
 to my Cabinet, and notably to you for advice and loyal 
 assistance, and I am confident that I shall get it. But 
 in the end I and 1 only must decide." 
 
 Seward looked up at the grave face and said noth- 
 ing. Lincoln went on : 
 
 "I have to make a decision which may bring war — 
 civil war. I don't know anything about war, though 
 
270 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 I served a month or two in the Black Hawk campaign, 
 and yet, if war comes, I am the Commander-in-Chief 
 of the Union. Who among us. knows anything of the 
 business? General Scott is an old man, and he doesn't 
 just see eye to eye with me ; for I'm told he talks about 
 'letting the wayward sisters go in peace.' Our army 
 and navy's nothing much to boast of, and the South is 
 far better prepared. You can't tell how our people 
 will take war, for they're all pulling different ways just 
 now. Blair says the whole North will spring to arms, 
 but I guess they've first got to find the arms to spring 
 to. ... I was reviewing some militia the other day, 
 and they looked a deal more like a Fourth of July pro- 
 cession than a battlefield. Yes, Mr. Secretary, if we 
 have to fight, we've first got to make an army." 
 
 "Remember, too, that it will be civil war — ^kin 
 against kin, brother against brother." 
 
 "I remember. All war is devilish, but ours will be 
 the most devilish -that the world has ever known. It 
 isn't only the feeding of fresh young boys to rebel bat- 
 teries that grieves me, though God knows that's not a 
 thing that bears thinking about. It's the bitterness 
 and hate within the people. Will it ever die down, 
 Mr. Secretary?" 
 
 Lincoln was very grave, and his face was set like 
 a man in anguish. Seward, deeply moved, rose and 
 stood beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "And for what, Mr. President?" he cried. "That 
 is the question I ask myself. We are faced by such 
 a problem as no man ever before had to meet. If 
 five and a half million white men deeply in earnest are 
 resolved to secede, is there any power on earth that 
 can prevent them ? You may beat them in battle, but 
 can you ever force them again inside the confines of the 
 nation? Remember Chatham's saying: 'Conquer a 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 271 
 
 free population of three million souls — the thing is im- 
 possible.' They stand on the rights of democracy, the 
 right of self-government, the right to decide their own 
 future." 
 
 Lincoln passed a hand over his brow. His face had 
 suddenly became very worn and weary. 
 
 "I've been pondering a deal over the position of 
 the South," he said. "I reckon I see their point of 
 view, and I'll not deny there's sense in it. There's a 
 truth in their doctrine of State rights, but they've got 
 it out of focus. If I had been raised in South Caro- 
 lina, loving the slave-system because I had grown up 
 with it and thinking more of my State than of the 
 American nation, maybe I'd have followed Jeff Davis. 
 I'm not saying there's no honesty in the South, I'm not 
 saying there's not truth on their side, but I do say that 
 ours is the bigger truth and the better truth. I hold 
 that a nation is too sacred a thing to tamper with — 
 even for good reasons. Why, man, if you once grant 
 the right of a minority to secede you make popular 
 government foolish. I'm willing to fight to prevent 
 democracy becoming a laughing-stock." 
 
 "It's a fine point to make war about," said the 
 other. 
 
 "Most true points are fine points. There never 
 was a dispute between mortals where both sides hadn't 
 a bit of right. I admit that the margin is narrow, but 
 if it's made of good rock it's sufficient to give us a foot- 
 hold. We've got to settle once for all the question 
 whether in a free Government the minority have a right 
 to break up the Government whenever they choose. 
 If we fail, then we must conclude that we've been all 
 wrong from the start, and that the people need a 
 tyrant, being incapable of governing themselves." 
 
 Seward wrung his hands. "If you put it that way 
 
272 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 I cannot confute you. But, oh, Mr. President, is there 
 not some means of building a bridge? I cannot think 
 that honest Southerners would force war on such a 
 
 narrow issue." 
 
 "They wouldn't but for this slavery. It is that ac- 
 cursed system that obscures their reason. If they 
 fight, the best of them will fight out of a mistaken loy- 
 alty to their State, but most will fight for the right to 
 keep their slaves. ... If you are to have bridges, you 
 must have solid ground at both ends. I've heard a 
 tale of some church members that wanted to build a 
 bridge over a dangerous river. Brother Jones sug- 
 gested one Myers, and Myers answered that, if neces- 
 sary, he could build one to hell. This alarmed the 
 church members, and Jones, to quiet them, said he be- 
 lieved his friend Myers was so good an architect that 
 he could do it if he said he could, though he felt bound 
 himself to express some doubt about the abutment on 
 the infernal side." 
 
 A queer quizzical smile had relieved the gravity of 
 the President's face. But Seward was in no mood for 
 tales. 
 
 "Is there no other way?" he moaned, and his suave 
 voice sounded cracked and harsh. 
 
 "There is no other way but to go forward. I've 
 never been a man for cutting across lots when I could 
 go round by the road, but if the roads are all shut we 
 must take to open country. For it is altogether nec- 
 essary to go forward." 
 
 Seward seemed to pull himself together. He took 
 a turn down the room and then faced Lincoln. 
 
 "Mr. President," he said, "you do not know whether 
 you have a majority behind you even in the North, 
 You have no experience of government and none of 
 war. The ablest men in your party are luke-warm or 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 273 
 
 hostile towards you. You have no army to speak of, 
 and will have to make everything from the beginning. 
 You feel as I do about the horror of war, and above 
 all the horrors of civil war. You do not know whether 
 the people will support you. You grant that there is 
 some justice in the contention of the South, and you 
 claim for your own case only a balance of truth. You 
 admit that to coerce the millions of the South back 
 into the Union is a kind of task which has never been 
 performed in the world before and one which the wise 
 of all ages have pronounced impossible. And yet, for 
 the sake of a narrow point, you are ready, if the need 
 arises, to embark on a war which must be bloody and 
 long, which must stir the deeps of bitterness, and which 
 in all likelihood will achieve nothing. Are you entirely 
 resolved?" 
 
 Lincoln's sad eyes rested on the other. "I am en- 
 tirely resolved. I have been set here to decide for the 
 people according to the best of my talents, and the 
 Almighty has shown me no other road." 
 
 Seward held out his hand. 
 
 "Then, by God, you must be right. You are the 
 bravest man in this land, sir, and I will follow you to 
 the other side of perdition." 
 
 Ill 
 
 The time is two years later — a warm evening in 
 early May. There had been no rain for a week in 
 Washington, and the President, who had ridden in 
 from his summer quarters in the Soldiers' Home, had 
 his trousers grey with dust from the knees down. He 
 had come round to the War Department, from which 
 in these days he was never long absent, and found the 
 Secretary for War busy as usual at his high desk. 
 
27.4 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 There had been the shortest of greetings, and, while 
 Lincoln turned over the last telegrams, Stanton wrote 
 steadily. 
 
 Stanton had changed much since the night in the 
 Springfield store. A square beard, streaked with grey, 
 rovered his chin, and his face had grown heavier. 
 There were big pouches below the short-sighted eyes, 
 md deep lines on each side of his short shaven upper 
 lip. His skin had an unheathly pallor, like that of one 
 who works late and has little fresh air. The mouth, 
 ilways obstinate, was now moulded into a settled grim- 
 less. The ploughs of war had made deep furrows on 
 lis soul. 
 
 Lincoln, too, had altered. He had got a stoop in 
 lis shoulders as if his back carried a burden. A beard 
 lad been suffered to grow in a ragged fringe about his 
 aw and cheeks, and there were silver threads in it, 
 Hh whole face seemed to have been pinched and ham- 
 nered together, so that it looked like a mask of pale 
 jronze — a death mask, for it was hard to believe that 
 )lood ran below that dry tegument. But the chief 
 :hange was in his eyes. They had lost the alertness 
 hey once possessed, and had become pits of brooding 
 ihade, infinitely kind, infinitely patient, infinitely mel- 
 mcholy. 
 
 Yet there was a sort of weary peace in the face, and 
 :here was still humour in the puckered mouth and even 
 n the sad eyes. He looked less harassed than the 
 secretary for War. He drew a small book from his 
 )ocket, at which the other glanced malevolently. 
 
 "I give you fair warning, Mr. President," said 
 Stanton. "If you've come here to read me the work 
 )f one of your tom-fool funny men, I'll fling it out of 
 he window." 
 
 "This work is the Bible," said Lincoln, with the art- 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 275 
 
 lessness of a mischievous child. I looked in to ask how 
 the draft was progressing." 
 
 "It starts in Rhode Island on July 7, and till it starts 
 I can say nothing. We've had warning that there will 
 be fierce opposition in New York. It may mean that 
 we have a second civil war on our hands. And of one 
 thing I am certain — it will cost you your re-election." 
 
 The President did not seem perturbed. "In this 
 war we've got to take one step at a time," he said. 
 "Our job Is to save the country, and to do that we've 
 got to win battles. But you can't win battles without 
 armies, and if men won't enlist of their own will they've 
 got to be compelled. What use is a second term to me 
 if I have no country. . . . You're not weakening on 
 the policy of the draft, Mr. Stanton?" 
 
 The War Minister shrugged his shoulders. "No. 
 In March it seemed inevitable. I still think it is essen- 
 tial, but I am forced to admit the possibility that it may 
 be a rank failure. It is the boldest step you have 
 taken, Mr. President. Have you ever regretted it?" 
 
 Lincoln shook his head. "It don't do to start re- 
 gretting. This war is managed by the Almighty, and 
 if it's His purpose that we should win He will show us 
 how. I regard our fallible reasoning and desperate 
 conclusions as part of His way of achieving His pur- 
 pose. But about that draft. I'll answer you in the 
 words of a young Quaker woman who against the rules 
 had married a military man. The elders asked her if 
 she was sorry, and she replied that she couldn't truly 
 say that she was sorry, but that she could say she 
 wouldn't do It again. I was for the draft, and I was 
 for the war, to prevent democracy making itself 
 
 foolish." 
 
 "You'll never succeed in that," said Stanton gravely. 
 
176 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 'If Congress is democracy, there can't be a more fool- 
 sh gathering outside a monkey-house." 
 
 The President grinned broadly. He was humming 
 he air of a nigger song, "The Blue-tailed Fly," which 
 ^amon had taught him. 
 
 "That reminds me of Artemus Ward. He observes 
 hat at the last election he voted for Henry Clay, 
 t's true, he says, that Henry was dead, but since all 
 he politicians that he knew were fifteenth-rate he pre- 
 erred to vote for a first-class corpse." 
 
 Stanton moved impatiently. He hated the Presi- 
 lent's pocket humorists and had small patience with 
 lis tales. "Was ever a great war fought," he cried, 
 'with such a camp-following as our Congressmen?" 
 
 Lincoln looked comically surprised. 
 
 "You're too harsh, Mr. Stanton. I admit there are 
 me or two rascals who'd be better hanged. But the 
 rouble is that most of them are too high-principled. 
 They are that set on liberty that they won't take the 
 rouble to safeguard it. They would rather lose the 
 var than give up their little notions. I've a great re- 
 gard for principles, but I have no use for them when 
 hey get so high that they become foolishness." 
 
 "Every idle pedant thinks he knows better how to 
 Ight a war than the men who are labouring sixteen 
 iours a day at it," said Stanton bitterly. 
 
 "They want to hurry things quicker than the 
 Umighty means them to go. I don't altogether blame 
 hem either, for I'm mortally impatient myself. But 
 t's no good thinking that saying a thing should be so 
 nil make it so. We're not the Creator of this uni- 
 erse. You've got to judge results according to your 
 istruments. Horace Greeley is always telling me 
 ?hat I should do, but Horace omits to explain how I 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 277 
 
 am to find the means. You can't properly manure a 
 fifty-acre patch with only a bad smell." 
 
 Lincoln ran his finger over the leaves of the small 
 Bible he had taken from his pocket. "Seems to me 
 Moses had the same difficulties to contend with. Read 
 the sixteenth chapter of the book of Numbers at your 
 leisure, Mr. Secretary. It's mighty pertinent to our 
 situation. The people have been a deal kinder to me 
 than I deserve and I've got more cause for thankful- 
 ness than complaint. But sometimes I get just a little 
 out of patience with our critics. I want to say to them 
 as Moses said to Korah, Dathan, and Abiram — 'Ye 
 take too much upon you, ye sons of Levi !' " 
 
 Lincoln's speech had broadened into something like 
 the dialect of his boyhood. Stanton finished the paper 
 on which he had been engaged and stepped aside from 
 his desk. His face was heavily preoccupied and he 
 kept an eye always on the door leading to his private 
 secretary's room. 
 
 "At this moment," he said, "Hooker is engaged with 
 Lee." He put a finger on a map which was stretched 
 on a frame behind him. "There! On the Rappa- 
 hannock, where it is joined by the Rapidan. . . . Near 
 the hamlet of Chancellorsville. . . . Battle was joined 
 two days ago, and so far it has been indecisive. To- 
 night we should know the result. That was the news 
 you came here to-night about, Mr. President?" 
 
 Lincoln nodded. "I am desperately anxious. I 
 needn't conceal that from you, Mr. Stanton." 
 
 "So am I. I wish to God I had more confidence in 
 General Hooker. I never liked that appointment, Mr. 
 President. I should have preferred Meade or Rey- 
 nolds. Hooker is a blustering thick-headed fellow, 
 good enough, maybe, for a division or even a corps, 
 but not for an army," 
 
78 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 "I visited him three weeks back," said Lincoln, "and 
 'm bound to say he has marvellously pulled round the 
 irmy of the Potomac. There's a new spirit in their 
 anks. You're unjust to Joe Hooker, Mr. Stanton, 
 le's a fine organiser, and he'll fight — ^he's eager to 
 ght, which McClellan and Burnside never were." 
 
 "But what on earth is the good of being willing to 
 ght if you're going to lose? He hasn't the brains to 
 ammand. And he's opposed by Lee and Jackson. 
 )o you realise the surpassing ability of those two men? 
 Ve have no generals fit to hold a candle to them." 
 
 "We've a bigger and a better army. I'm not going 
 3 be depressed, Mr. Stanton. Joe has two men to 
 7ery one of Lee's, he's safe over the Rappahannock, 
 nd I reckon he will make a road to Richmond. I've 
 :en his troops, and they are fairly bursting to get at 
 le enemy. I insist on being hopeful. What's the 
 ist news from the Mississippi?" 
 
 "Nothing new. Grant has got to Port Gibson and 
 as his base at Grand Gulf. He now proposes to cut 
 )ose and make for Vicksburg. So far he has done 
 ell, but the risk is terrific. Still, I am inclined to think 
 Du were right about that man. He has capacity." 
 
 "Grant stops still and saws wood," said Lincoln. 
 He don't talk a great deal, but he fights. I can't help 
 jeling hopeful to-night, for it seems to me we have the 
 lemy in a fix. You've heard me talk of the shrinking 
 iiadrilateral, which is the rebel States, as I see the 
 roposition." 
 
 "Often," said the other drily. 
 
 "I never could get McClellan rightly to understand 
 . I look on the Confederacy as a quadrilateral of 
 hich at present we hold two sides — ^the east and the 
 )uth — the salt-water sides. The north side is Vir- 
 inia, the west side the line of the Mississippi. If 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 279 
 
 Grant and Farragut between them can win the control 
 of the Father of Waters, we've got the west side. 
 Then it's the business of the Armies on the Mississippi 
 to press east and the Army of the Potomac to press 
 south. It may take a time, but if we keep a stiff upper 
 lip we're bound to have the rebels whipped. I reckon 
 they're whipped already In spite of Lee. I've heard 
 of a turtle that an old nigger man decapitated. Next 
 day he was amusing himself poking sticks at it and the 
 turtle was snapping back. His master comes along 
 and says to him, 'Why, Pomp, I thought that turtle 
 was dead.' 'Well, he am dead, massa,' says Pompey, 
 'but the critter don't know enough ter be sensible ob it.' 
 I reckon the Confederacy's dead, but Jeff Davis don't 
 know enough to be sensible of it." 
 
 A young man in uniform came hurriedly through the 
 private secretary's door and handed the Secretary for 
 War a telegram. He stood at attention, and the 
 President observed that his face was pale. Stanton 
 read the message, but gave no sign of its contents. He 
 turned to the map behind him and traced a line on it 
 with his forefinger. 
 
 "Any more news?" he asked the messenger. 
 
 "Nothing official, sir," was the answer. "But there 
 is a report that General Jackson has been killed in the 
 moment of victory." 
 
 The officer withdrew and Stanton turned to the 
 President. Lincoln's face was terrible in its strain, for 
 the words "in the moment of victory" had rung the 
 knell of his hopes. 
 
 When Stanton spoke his voice was controlled and 
 level. "Unlike your turtle," he said, "the Confederacy 
 is suddenly and terribly alive. Lee has whipped 
 Hooker to blazes. We have lost more than fifteen 
 
8o THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 lousand men. To-day we are back on the north side 
 f the Rappahannock." 
 
 Lincoln was on his feet and for a moment the bronze 
 lask of his face was distorted by suffering. 
 
 "My God!" he cried. "What will the country say? 
 V^hat will the country say?" 
 
 "It matters little what the country says. The point 
 i what will the country suffer. In a fortnight Lee will 
 e in Marylan'd and Pennsylvania. Your quadrilateral 
 'ill not shrink, it will extend. In a month we shall be 
 ghting to hold Washington and Baltimore, aye, and 
 'hiladelphia." 
 
 The bitterness of the words seemed to calm Lincoln, 
 le was walking up and down the floor, with his hands 
 lasped behind his back, and his expression was once 
 gain one of patient humility. 
 
 "I take all the blame," he said. "You have done 
 obly, Mr. Stanton, and all the mistakes are mine. I 
 sckon I am about the poorest efiigy of a War Presi- 
 ent that ever cursed an unhappy country." 
 
 The other did not reply. He was an honest man 
 'ho did not deal in smooth phrases. 
 
 "I'd resign to-morrow," Lincoln went on. "No rail- 
 plitter ever laid down his axe at the end of a hard day 
 3 gladly as I would lay down my office. But I've got 
 3 be sure first that my successor will keep faith with 
 lis nation. I've got to find a man who will keep the 
 ight course." 
 
 "Which is?" Stanton asked. 
 
 "To fight it out to the very end. To the last drop 
 f blood and the last cent. There can be no going 
 ack. If I surrendered my post to any successor, 
 lough he were an archangel from heaven, who would 
 reaken on that great purpose, I should deserve to be 
 xecrated as the betrayer of my country." 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 281 
 
 Into Stanton's sour face there came a sudden gleam 
 which made it almost beautiful. 
 
 "Mr. President," he said, "I have often differed 
 from you. I have used great freedom in criticism of 
 your acts, and I take leave to think that I have been 
 generally in the right. You know that I am no flat- 
 terer. But I tell you, sir, from my inmost heart that 
 you are the only man to lead the people, because you 
 are the only man whose courage never fails. God 
 knows how you manage it. I am of the bull-dog type 
 and hold on because I do not know how to let go. Most 
 of my work I do in utter hopelessness. But you, sir, 
 you never come within a mile of despair. The blacker 
 the clouds get the more confident you are that there 
 is sunlight behind them. I carp and cavil at you, but 
 I also take off my hat to you, for you are by far the 
 greatest of us." 
 
 Lincoln's face broke into a slow smile, which made 
 the eyes seem curiously child-like. 
 
 "I thank you, my old friend," he said. "I don't 
 admit I have your courage, for I haven't half of it. 
 But if a man feels that he is only a pipe for Omnipo- 
 tence to sound through, he is not so apt to worry. 
 Besides, these last weeks God has been very good to 
 me and I've been given a kind of assurance. I know 
 the country will grumble a bit about my ways of doing 
 things, but will follow me in the end. I know that we 
 shall win a clean victory. Jordan has been a hard road 
 to travel, but I feel that in spite of all our frailties 
 we'll be dumped on the right side of that stream. After 
 that . . ." 
 
 "After that," said Stanton, with something like 
 enthusiasm in his voice, "you'll be the first President 
 of a truly united America, with a power and prestige 
 the greatest since Washington." 
 
\i THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 Lincoln's gaze had left the other's face and was 
 :ed on the blue dusk now gathering in the window. 
 "I don't know about that," he said. "When the 
 ir's over, I think I'll go home." 
 
 IV 
 
 Two years passed and once again it was spring in 
 'ashington — about half-past ten of the evening of the 
 .th of April — 'Good Friday — the first Eastertide of 
 ace. The streets had been illuminated for victory, 
 d the gas jets were still blazing, while a young moon, 
 mbing the sky, was dimming their murky yellow with 
 
 cold pure light. Tenth Street was packed from 
 d to end by a silent mob. As a sponge cleans a slate, 
 
 exhilaration had been wiped off their souls. On the 
 rch of Ford's Theatre some gaudy posters advertised 
 jm Taylor's comedy. Our American Cousin, and the 
 ;ps were littered with paper and orange peel and torn 
 igments of women's clothes, for the exit of the audi- 
 ce had been hasty. Lights still blazed in the build- 
 j, for there was nobody to put them out. In front 
 
 the side-walk was a cordon of soldiers. 
 Stanton elbowed his way through the throng to the 
 tie house, Mr. Peterson's, across the street. The 
 issenger from the War Depa.rtment had poured wild 
 ws into his ear, — wholesale murder, everybody— the 
 esident — Seward — ^Grant. Incredulous he had hur- 
 d forth, and the sight of that huge still crowd woke 
 ir in him. The guards at Mr. Peterson's door 
 :ognised him and he was admitted. As he crossed 
 : threshold he saw ominous dark stains. 
 A kitchen candle burned below the hat-rack in the 
 rrow hall, and showed further stains on the oilcloth. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 283 
 
 From a room on the left hand came the the sound of 
 women weeping. 
 
 The door at the end of the passage was ajar. It 
 opened on a bare little place, once perhaps the surgery 
 of some doctor in small practice, but now a bedroom. 
 A door gave at the farther side on a tiny verandah, and 
 this and the one window were wide open. An oil lamp 
 stood on a table by the bed and revealed a crowd of 
 people. A man lay on the camp-bed, lying aslant for 
 he was too long for it. A sheet covered his lower 
 limbs, but his breast and shoulders had been bared. 
 The head was nearest to the entrance, propped on an 
 outjutting bolster. 
 
 A man was leaving whom Stanton recognised as Dr. 
 Stone, the Lincoln family physician. The doctor 
 answered his unspoken question. "Dying," he said. 
 "Through the brain. The bullet is now below the left 
 eye. He may live for a few hours — scarcely the night." 
 
 Stanton moved to the foot of the bed like one in a 
 dream. He saw that Barnes, the Surgeon-General, sat 
 on a deal chair on the left side, holding the dying man's 
 hand. Dr. Gurley, the minister, sat beside the bed. 
 He noted Sumner and Welles and General Halleck and 
 Governor Dennison, and back in the gloom the young 
 Robert Lincoln. But he observed them only as he 
 would have observed figures in a picture. They were 
 but shadows ; the living man was he who was struggling 
 on the bed with death. 
 
 Lincoln's great arms and chest were naked, and 
 Stanton, who had thought of him as meagre and 
 shrunken, was amazed at their sinewy strength. He 
 remembered that he had once heard of him as a village 
 Hercules. The President was unconscious, but some 
 tortured nerve made him moan like an animal in pain. 
 It was a strange sound to hear from one who had been 
 
284 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 wont to suffer with tight lips. To Stanton it heightened 
 the spectral unreality of the scene. He seemed to be 
 looking at a death in a stage tragedy. 
 
 The trivial voice of Welles broke the silence. He 
 had to give voice to the emotion which choked him. 
 
 "His dream has come true," he said — ''the dream 
 he told us about at the Cabinet this morning. His ship 
 is nearing the dark shore. He thought it signified good 
 news from Sherman." 
 
 Stanton did not reply. To save his life he could not 
 have uttered a word. 
 
 Then Gurley, the minister, spoke, very gently, for 
 he was a simple man sorely moved. 
 
 "He has looked so tired for so long. He will have 
 rest now, the deep rest of the people of God. ... He 
 has died for us all. . . . To-day nineteen hundred years 
 ago the Son of Man gave His life for the world. . . . 
 The President has followed in his Master's steps." 
 
 Sumner was repeating softly to himself, like a litany, 
 that sentence from the second Inaugural — "With 
 malice toward none, with charity for all." 
 
 But Stanton was in no mood for words. He was 
 looking at the figure on the bed, the great chest heaving 
 with the laboured but regular breath, and living again 
 the years of coUeagueship and conflict. He had been 
 loyal to him : yes, thank God ! he had been loyal. He 
 had quarrelled, thwarted, criticised, but he had never 
 failed him in a crisis. He had held up his hands as 
 Aaron and Hur held up the hands of Moses. . . . 
 
 The Secretary for War was not In the habit of 
 underrating his own talents and achievements. But in 
 that moment they seemed less than nothing. Humility 
 shook him like a passion. Till his dying day his one 
 boast must be that he had served that figure on the 
 camp-bed. It had been his high fortune to have his lot 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 285 
 
 cast in the vicinity of supreme genius. With awe he 
 realised that he was looking upon the passing of the 
 very great. . , . There had never been such a man. 
 There could never be such an one again. So patient 
 and enduring, so wise in all great matters, so potent to 
 inspire a multitude, so secure in his own soul. . . . 
 Fools would chatter about his being a son of the people 
 and his career a triumph of the average man. Aver- 
 age ! Great God, he was a ruler of princes, a master, 
 a compeller of men. . . . He could imagine what 
 noble nonsense Sumner would talk. . . . He looked 
 with disfavor at the classic face of the Bostonian. 
 
 But Sumner for once seemed to share his feelings. 
 He, too, was looking with reverent eyes towards the 
 bed, and as he caught Stanton's gaze he whispered 
 words which the Secretary for War did not condemn : 
 "The beauty of Israel Is slain upon thy high places." 
 
 The night hours crawled on with an intolerable 
 slowness. Some of the watchers sat, but Stanton re- 
 mained rigid at the bed-foot. He had not been well 
 of late and had been ordered a long rest by his doctor, 
 but he was not conscious of fatigue. He would not 
 have left his post for a king's ransom, for he felt 
 himself communing with the dying, sharing the last 
 stage In his journey as he had shared all the rough 
 marches. His proud spirit found a certain solace in 
 the abasement of Its humbleness. 
 
 A little before six the morning light began to pale 
 the lamps. The window showed a square of grey 
 cloudy sky, and outside on the porch there was a drip 
 of rain. The faces revealed by the cold dawn were 
 as haggard and yellow as that of the dying man. 
 Wafts of the outer air began to freshen the stuffiness 
 of the little room. 
 
i86 THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 The city was waking up. There came the sound of 
 'ar-away carts and horses, and a boy in the lane behind 
 ;he house began to whistle, and then to sing. "When 
 [ was young," he sang — 
 
 "When 1 was young I used to wait 
 At Massa's table, 'n' hand de plate, 
 An' pass de bottle when he was dry, 
 An' blush away de blue-tailed fly." 
 
 "It's his song," Stanton said to himself, and with 
 the air came a rush of strange .feelings. He remem- 
 bered a thousand things, which before had been only 
 a background of which he had been scarcely conscious. 
 The constant kindliness, the gentle healing sympathy, 
 the homely humour which he once thought had irritated 
 but which he now knew had soothed him. . . . This 
 man had been twined round the roots of every heart. 
 All night he had been in an ecstasy of admiration, but 
 now that was forgotten in a yearning love. The Presi- 
 dent had been part of his being, closer to him than wife 
 or child. The boy sang — 
 
 "But I can't forget, until I die 
 Ole Massa an' de blue-tailed fly." 
 
 Stanton's eyes filled with hot tears. He had not 
 wept since his daughter died. 
 
 The breathing from the bed was growing faint. 
 Suddenly the Surgeon-General held up his hand. He 
 felt the heart and shook his head. "Fetch your 
 mother," he said to Robert Lincoln. The minister 
 had dropped on his knees by the bedside and was 
 praying. 
 
 "The President is dead," said the Surgeon-General, -v 
 md at the words it seemed that every head in the room 
 vas bowed on the breast. 
 Stanton took a step forward with a strange appealing , 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 287 
 
 motion of the arms. It was noted by more than one 
 that his pale face was transfigured. 
 
 "Yesterday he was America's," he cried. "Our very 
 own. Now he is all the world's. . . . Now he belongs 
 to the ages." 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 lYI R. FRANCIS HAMILTON, an honorary at- 
 ^^^ tache of the British Embassy, stood on the steps 
 of the Capitol watching the procession which bore the 
 President's body from the White House to lie in state 
 in the great Rotunda. He was a young man of some 
 thirty summers, who after a distinguished Oxford 
 career was preparing himself with a certain solemnity 
 for the House of Commons. He sought to be an au- 
 thority on Foreign afFairs, and with this aim was mak- 
 ing a tour among the legations. Two years before he 
 had come to Washington, intending to remain for six 
 months, and somewhat to his own surprise had stayed 
 on, declining to ftollow his kinsman Lord Lyons to Con- 
 stantinople. Himself a staunch follower of Mr. Disra- 
 eli, and an abhorrer of Whiggery in all its forms, he yet 
 Found in America's struggle that which appealed both 
 :o his brain and his heart. He was a believer, he told 
 limself, in the Great State and an opponent of 
 jarochialism; so, unlike most of his friends at home, 
 lis sympathies were engaged for the Union. More- 
 )ver he seemed to detect in the protagonists a Roman 
 limplicity pleasing to a good classic. 
 
 Mr. Hamilton was sombrely but fashionably dressed 
 md wore a gold eyeglass on a black ribbon, because 
 le fancied that a monocle adroitly used was a for- 
 nidable weapon in debate. He had neat small side- 
 s^hiskers, and a pleasant observant eye. With him 
 vere young Major Endicott from Boston and the 
 minent Mr. Russell Lowell, who, as Longfellow's 
 
EPILOGUE 289 
 
 successor in the Smith Professorship and one of the 
 editors of The North American Review, was a great 
 figure in cultivated circles. Both were acquaintances 
 made by Mr. Hamilton on a recent visit to Harvard. 
 He found it agreeable to have a few friends with whom 
 he could have scholarly talk. 
 
 The three watched the procession winding through 
 the mourning streets. Every house was draped in 
 funeral black, the passing bell tolled from every 
 church, and the minute-guns boomed at the City Hall 
 and on Capitol Hill. Mr. Hamilton regarded the 
 cortege at first with a critical eye. The events of the 
 past week had wrought in him a great expectation, 
 which he feared would be disappointed. It needed a 
 long tradition to do fitting honour to the man who had 
 gone. Had America such a tradition? he asked him- 
 self. . . . The coloured troops marching at the head 
 of the line pleased him. That was a happy thought. 
 He liked, too, the business-like cavalry and infantry, 
 and the battered field-pieces. . . . He saw his Chief 
 among the foreign Ministers, bearing a face of por- 
 tentous solemnity. . . . But he liked best the Illinois 
 and Kentucky delegates; he thought the dead President 
 would have liked them too. 
 
 Major Endicott was pointing out the chief figures. 
 "There's Grant . . . and Stanton, looking more 
 cantankerous than ever. They say he's broken- 
 hearted." But Mr. Hamilton had no eye for celebri- 
 ties. He was thinking rather of those plain mourners 
 from the west, and of the poorest house In Washington 
 decked with black. This is a true national sorrow, he 
 thought. He had been brought up as a boy from Eton 
 to see Wellington's funeral, and the sight had not im- 
 pressed him like this. For the recent months had 
 
ago THE PATH OF THE KING 
 
 awakened odd emotions in his orderly and somewhat 
 cynical soul. He had discovered a hero. 
 
 The three bared their heads as the long line filed by. 
 Mr. Lowell said nothing. Now and then he pulled at 
 his moustaches as if to hide isome emotion which clam- 
 oured for expression. The mourners passed into the 
 Capitol, while the bells still tolled and the guns 
 boomed. The cavalry escort formed up on guard; 
 from below came the sound of sharp commands. 
 
 Mr. Hamilton was shaken out of the admirable de- 
 tachment which he had cultivated. He wanted to sit 
 down and sob like a child. Some brightness had died in 
 the air, some great thing had gone for ever from the 
 world and left it empty. He found himself regarding 
 the brilliant career which he had planned for himself 
 with a sudden disfavour. It was only second-rate after 
 all, that glittering old world of courts and legislatures 
 and embassies. For a moment he had had a glimpse 
 of the first-rate, and it had shivered his pretty palaces. 
 He wanted now something which he did not think he 
 would find again. 
 
 The three turned to leave, and at last Mr. Lowell 
 spoke. 
 
 "There goes," he said, "the first American." 
 Mr. Hamilton heard the words as he was brushing 
 delicately with his sleeve a slight berufBement of his 
 silk hat. 
 
 "I dare say you are right. Professor," he said. "But 
 I think it is also the last of the Kings." 
 
 THE END 
 
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 Blades. George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Blair's Attic. Joseph C. Lincoln and Freeman Lincoln. 
 
 Blatchington Tangle, The. G. D. H. and Margaret Cole. 
 
 Bleston Mystery, The. Robert Milward Kennedy. 
 
 Bloody Grouiul. Oscar J. Friend. 
 
 Blue Blood. Owen Johnson. 
 
 Blue Car Mystery, The. Natalie Sumner Lincoln. 
 
 Blue Castle, The. L. M. Montgomery. 
 
 Blue Hand. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Blue Jay, The. Max Brand. 
 
 Bob, Son of Battle. Alfred OUivant. 
 
 Bondwoman, The. G. U. Ellis. 
 
 Born Rich. Hushes Cornell. 
 
 Borrowed Shield; The. Richard E. Enright. 
 
 Boss of Eagle's Nest, The. William West Winter. 
 
 Boss of the Diamond A. Robert Ames Bennet. 
 
 Boss of the Tumbling H. Frank C. Robertson. 
 
 Box With Broken Seals. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Branded. Robert Ames Bennet. 
 
 Brass. Charles G. Norris. 
 
 Brass Bowl. Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Bravo Jim. W. D. Hoffman. 
 
 Bread. Charles G. Norris. 
 
 Bread and Jam. Nalbro Bartley. 
 
 Break-Up, The. Esther Birdsall. Darling. 
 
 Breaking Point, The. Mary Roberts Rinehart. 
 
 Bride's Progress, The. Harold Weston. 
 
 Bright Shawl, The. Joseph Hergesheimer. 
 
 Bring Me His Ears. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Broad Highway, The. Jeffery Farnol. 
 
 Broken Barriers. Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 Broken Waters. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Bronze Hand, The. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Brood of the Witch Queen. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Brook Evans. Susan Glaspell. 
 
 Brown Study, The. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Buck Peters, Ranchman. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Bullet Eater. Oscar J. Friend. 
 
 Burned Evidence. Mrs. Wilson Woodrow. 
 
 Bush Rancher, The. Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Bush That Burned, A. Marjorie Barclay AlcClute, 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Buster, The. William Patterson White. 
 Butterfly. Kathleen Norris. 
 
 Cabbages and Kings. O. Henry. 
 Cabin at the Trail's End. Sheba Hargreaves 
 Callahans and the Murphys. Kathleen Norris. 
 Calling of Dan Matthews. Harold Bell Wright, 
 Can Women Forget? Florence Eiddell. 
 Cape Cod Stories. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Captain Brand of the Schooner "Centipede." Lieut. Henry A. Wise, 
 Cap'n Dan's Daughter. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 Cap'n Eri. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 jDip'n Jonah's Fortune. James A. Cooper. 
 Captains of Souls. Edgar Wallace. 
 Cap'n Sue. Hulbert Footner. 
 Cap'n Warren's Wards. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 Cardigan. Robert W. Chambers, 
 Carib Gold. Ellery H. Clark. 
 Camac's Folly. Sir Gilbert Parker. 
 Carry On, Jeeves! P. G. Wodehouse. 
 Case and the Girl. Randall Parrish. 
 Case Book of Sherlock Holmes, The. A. Conan Doyle. 
 Cask, The. Freeman Wills Crofts, 
 Cat-O'Mountain. Arthur O. Friel. 
 Cat's Eye, The. R. Austin Freeman. 
 Catspaw, The. Terry Shannon. 
 Cattle. Winifred Eaton Reeve. 
 Cattle Baron, The. Robert Ames Bennet. 
 Cavalier of Tennessee. Meredith Nicholson. 
 Celestial Cit^ The. Baroness Orczy. 
 Certain Dr. Thprndyke, A. R. Austin Freeman. 
 Certain People of Importance. Kathleen Norris.. 
 Chaffee of Roaring Horse, Ernest Haycox. 
 Chance — aiid the Woman. Ellis Mlddleton. 
 Chatteris Mystery. A. Fielding. 
 Cherry Square. Grace S. Richmond. 
 Cheyne Mystery, The. Freeman Wills CloftS< 
 Child of the North, Ridgwell Cullum. 
 Child of the Wild. Edison Marshall. 
 Children of Divorce. Owen Johnson. 
 Chronicles of Avonlea. L. M. Montgomery. 
 Cinema Murder, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 City of Lilies, "The. Anthony Pryde and R. K. Weeks. 
 City of Peril, The. Arthur Stringer. 
 Gty of the Sun, The. Edwin L. Sabin. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Clair De Lune. Anthony Pryde. 
 
 Clever One, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Click of Triangle T. Oscar J. Friend. 
 
 Clifford Affair, The. A. Fielding. 
 
 Clock Strikes Two, The. Henry Kitchell Webster. 
 
 Clouded Pearl, The. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Cloudy in the West. William Patterson White. 
 
 Club of Masks, The. Allen Upward. 
 
 Clue of the New Pin, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Que of the Twisted Candle. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Coast of Enchantment. Burton E. Stevenson. 
 
 Cock's Feather. Katherine Newlin Burt. 
 
 Cold Harbour. Francis Brett Young. 
 
 Colorado Jim. George Goodchild. 
 
 Come Home. Stella G. S. Perry. 
 
 Coming of Cassidy, The. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Coming of Cosgrove, The. Laurie Y. Erskine. 
 
 Coming of the Law, The. Charles A. Selzer. 
 
 Communicating Door, The. Wadsworth Camp. 
 
 Concerning Him. Introduced by the writer of "To M. L. G.' 
 
 Confidence Man, The. Laurie Y. Erskine. 
 
 Conquest of Canaan, The. Booth Tarkington. 
 
 Conquering Lover, The. Pamela Wynne. 
 
 Conqueror Passes, A. Larry Barretto. 
 
 Constant Nymph, The. Margaret Kennedy. 
 
 Contraband. Clarence Budington Kelland. 
 
 Copper Moon. Edwin Bateman Morris. 
 
 Corbin Necklace, The. Henry Kitchell Webster. 
 
 Corsican Justice. J. G. Sarasin. 
 
 Corson of the J. C. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Cottonwood Gulch. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Court of Inquiry, A. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Cow Woman, The. George Gilbert. 
 
 Crime at Red Towers. Chester K. Steele. 
 
 Crime in the Crypt, The. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Crimson Circle, Ihe. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Crooked. Maximilian Foster. 
 
 Crooked Cross, The. Charles J. Dutton. 
 
 Crook's Shadow, The. J. Jefferson Farjeon. 
 
 Cross Trails. Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Cruel Fellowship. Cyril Hume. 
 
 Cryder of the Big Woods. George C. Shedd. 
 
 Cry in the Wilderness, A. Mary E. Waller. 
 
 Crystal Cup, The. Gertrude Atherton. 
 
 Cup of Fury, The. Rupert Hughes. 
 
 Curious Quest, The. E, Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Cursed Be the Treasure. H. B. Drake. 
 
 Cytherea. Joseph Hergesheimer. 
 
 Cy Whittaker's Place. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Daffodil Murder, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Dagger, The. Anthony Wynne. 
 
 Dalehouse Murder, The. Francis Everton. 
 
 Damsel in Distress, A. Pelham G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Dan Barry's Daughter. Max Brand. 
 
 Dance Magic. Clarence Budington Kelland. 
 
 Dancers in the Dark. Dorothy Speare. 
 
 Dancing Silhouette, The. Natalie Sumner Lincoln. 
 
 Dancing Star. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Danger. Ernest Poole. 
 
 Danger and Other Stories. A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Dangerous Business. Edwin Balmer. 
 
 Dark Duel. Marguerite Steen. 
 
 Darkest Spot, The. Lee Thayer. 
 
 Dark Eyes of London, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 David Strange. Nelia Gardner White. 
 
 Daughter of the House. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Daughter of the Sands, A. Frances Everard. 
 
 Daughter Pays, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 David Copperfield. Charles Dickens. 
 
 Deadfall, The. Edison Marshall, 
 
 Dead Men's Shoes. Lee Thayer. 
 
 Dead Ride Hard, The. Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Dear Pretender, The. Alice Ross Colver. 
 
 Death Maker, The. Austin J. Small. 
 
 Deeper Scar, The. Sinclair Gluck. 
 
 Deep in the Hearts of Men. Mary E. Waller. 
 
 Deep Lake Mystery. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Deep Seam, Tte. Jack Bethea. 
 
 Defenders, The. Stella G. S. Perry. 
 
 Delight. Mazo de la Roche. 
 
 Demon Caravan, The. Georges Surdez. 
 
 Depot Master, The. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Desert Dust. Edwin L. Sabin. 
 
 Desert Healer. E. M. Hull. 
 
 Desire. Gladys Johnson. , t^ „ 
 
 Desire of His Life, and Other Stories. Ethel M. Dell. 
 
 Destiny. Rupert Hughes. 
 
 Devil of Pei-ling, The. Herbert Asbury. 
 
 Devil's Mantle, The. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Devil's Paw, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Devonsheis, The. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Diamond Murders, The. J. S. Fletcher. 
 
 Diamond Thieves, The. Arthur Stringer. 
 
 Diana at the Bath. Elizabeth Hall Yates. 
 
 Diana of Kara-Kara. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Diane's Adventure. Ann Sumner. 
 
 Dimmest Dream, The. Alice Ross Colver. 
 
 Divine Event. Will N. Harben. 
 
 Divots. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Dixiana, A Novelization. Winnie Brandon. 
 
 Dr. Glazebrook's Revenge. Andrew Cassels Brown. 
 
 Dr. Nye. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Doctor S. O. S. Lee Thayer. 
 
 Doctor Who Held Hands, The. Hulbert Footner. 
 
 Don Careless. Rex Beach. 
 
 Door of Dread, The. Arthur Stringer. 
 
 Doors of the Night. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Door With Seven Locks. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Dope. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Double Chance, The. J. S. Fletcher. 
 
 Double House, The. Elizabeth Dejeans. 
 
 Double Thirteen, The. Anthony Wynne. 
 
 Double Traitor, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Downey of the Mounted. James B. Hendryx. 
 
 Draycott Murder Mystery. Molly Thynne. 
 
 Dream Detective. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Dream Kiss. Ann Sumner. 
 
 Drums of Aulone, The. Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Drums of Doom. Robert Welles Ritchie. 
 
 Duke Steps Out, The. Lucian Gary. 
 
 Dust. Armine Von Tempski. 
 
 Dust of the Desert. Robert Welles Ritchie. 
 
 Dust to Dust. Isabel Ostrander. 
 
 Eames-Ersklne Case. A. Fielding. 
 
 Easy. Nina Wilcox Putnam. 
 
 Eddy and Edouard. Baroness Von Hutten. 
 
 Eight Panes of Glass. Robert Simpson. 
 
 Ellerby Case, The. John Rhode. 
 
 Emerald Tiger. Edgar Jepson. 
 
 Emily Climbs. L. M. Montgomery. 
 
 Emily of New Moon. L. M. Montgomery. 
 
 Emily's Quest. L. M. Montgomery. 
 
 Emperor of America, The. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Empty Hands. Arthur Stringer. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Enchanted Canyon, The. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Enemies of Women. Vicente Blasco Ibanez. 
 
 Erskine Dale, Pioneer. John Fox, Jr. 
 
 Evil Shepherd, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Exile of the Lariat, The. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Extricating Obadiah. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Eye of Osiris, The. R. Austin Freeman. 
 
 Eyes of the World, The. Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 Face Cards. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Face in the Night, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Fair Game. Olive Wadsley. 
 
 Fair Harbor. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Faith of Our Fathers. Dorothy Walworth Carman. 
 
 Family. Wayland Wells Williams. 
 
 Fantomas Captured. Marcel Allain. 
 
 Far Call. Edison Marshall. 
 
 Fatal Kiss Mystery, The. Rufus King. 
 
 Fathoms Deep. Elizabeth Stancy Payne. 
 
 Feast of the Lanterns, The. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
 Fellowship of the Frog, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Fidelia. Edwin Balmer. 
 
 Fifteen Cells, The. Stuart Martin. 
 
 Fight on the Standing Stone. Francis Lynde. 
 
 Findings Is Keepings. John Boyd Clarke. 
 
 Find the Clock. Harry Stephen Keeler. 
 
 Fine Feathers. Margery Lawrence. 
 
 Fire Brain. Max Brand. 
 
 Fire Tongue. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 First Sir Percy, The. Baroness Orczy. 
 
 Fish Preferred. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Flame of Happiness, The. Florence Ward. 
 
 Flames of Desire. L. Noel. 
 
 Flaming Jewel, The. Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Flamingo. Mary Borden. 
 
 Fleur de Lys. J. G. Sarasin. 
 
 Flood Tide. Sara Ware Basset. 
 
 Flowing Gold. Rex Beach. 
 
 Flutes of Shanghai, The. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
 Flying Clues. Charles J. Dutton. 
 
 Flying Squad, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Fool in the Forest, A. Anthony Pryde. 
 
 Foolish Virgin, The. Kathleen Norris. 
 
 Footsteps in the Night. G. Fraser-Simpson. 
 
 Footsteps That Stopped, A. Fielding. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Forbidden Door, The. Herman Landon. 
 
 Forbidden Trail, The. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Forbidden Lips. Terry Shannon. 
 
 Foreman of the Forty-Bar. Frank G. Robertson. 
 
 Forever Free. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Forfeit, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Fortunate Wayfarer, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Fortunate Mary, The. Eleanor H. Porter. 
 
 Four-and-Twenty Blackbirds. Howard Vincent O'Brien. 
 
 Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The. Vicente Blasco Ibanez. 
 
 Four Just Men, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Four Million, The. O. Henry. 
 
 Foursquare. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Four Stragglers, The. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Fourteenth Key, The. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Fourth Finger, The. Anthony Wynne. 
 
 Four Winds, The. Sinclair Gluck. 
 
 Fox Woman, The. Nalbro Bartley. 
 
 Free Grass. Ernest Haycox. 
 
 French Wife, The. Dorothy Graham. 
 
 From Now On. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 From Six to Six. W. Bert Foster. 
 
 Frontier of the Deep, The. Will Beale. 
 
 Frozen Inlet Post. James B. Hendryx. 
 
 Frozen Justice. Ejnar Mikkelsen. 
 
 Full of the Moon. Caroline Lockhart. 
 
 Fur Brigade. Hal G. Evans. 
 
 Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. Fiank L. Packard. 
 
 Furthest Fury, The. Carolyn Wells. 
 
 Fury. Edmund Goulding. 
 
 Gabriel Samara, Peacemaker. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 Galusha the Magnificent. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 Garde A'Vous (On Guard). J. D. Newson. 
 Garden of Flames. E. S. Stevens. 
 Gaspards of Pine Croft. Ralph Connor. 
 Gate Through the Mountain, The. Hugh Pendexter. 
 Gay Ones, The. Charles Hanson Towne. 
 Gay Year, The. Dorothy Speare. 
 Gentle Grafter, The. O. Henry. 
 Gentleman Grizzly. Reginald C. Barker. 
 Gertrude Haviland's Divorce. Inez Haynes Irwin. 
 Get Your Man. Ethel and James Dorrance. 
 Ghost of Hemlock Canyon. Harold Bindloss. 
 Giants in the Earth. O. £. Rolvaag. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Gideon. Inez Haynes Irwin. 
 
 Gift in the Gauntlet, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 Gift of the Desert. Randall Parrish. 
 
 Girl of the Golden West. David Belasco. 
 
 Girl from the Big Horn Country, The. Mary Ellen Chase. 
 
 Girl From Scotland Yard. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Girl Who Cast Out Fear. Dorothy Speare. 
 
 Glitter. Katharine Brush. 
 
 Glory Rides the Range. Ethel and James Dorrance. 
 
 God and the Groceryman. Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 God's Country and the Woman. James Oliver Curwood. 
 
 Go-Getter Gary. Robert Ames Bennet. 
 
 Going Some. Rex Beach. 
 
 Gold and the Mounted. James B. Hendryx. 
 
 Golden Ballast. H. De Vere Stacpoole. 
 
 Golden Beast, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Golden Butterfly. A. M. Williamson. 
 
 Golden Centipede, The. Louise Gerard. 
 
 Golden Cocoon. Ruth Cross. 
 
 Golden Ladder, The. Major Rupert Hughes. 
 
 Golden Road, The. L. M. Montgomery. 
 
 Golden Scorpion, The. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Golden Spurs, The. J. S. Fletcher. 
 
 Golden Woman, The. Ridgwell CuUum. 
 
 Gold Tooth, The. John Taine. 
 
 Golf Without Tears. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Good Red Bricks, The. Mary Synon. 
 
 Good References. E. J. Rath. 
 
 Goose Woman, The. Rex Beach. 
 
 Gordon of the Lost Lagoon. Robert Watson. 
 
 Granite and Clay. Sara Ware Basset, 
 
 Graven Image. Margaret Widdemer. 
 
 Gray Angels, The. Nalbro Bartley. 
 
 Gray Magic. Herman Landon. 
 
 Gray Phantom, The. Herman Landon. 
 
 Gray Phantom's Return. Herman Landon. 
 
 Gray Terror. Herman Landon. 
 
 Greater Love Hath No Man. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Great Impersonation, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Great Moment, The. Elinor Glyn. 
 
 Great Prince Shan, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Green Archer, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Green Blot, The. Sinclair Gluck. 
 
 Green Dolphin, The. Sara Ware Basset. 
 
 Green Dragon, The. J. Jefferson Farjeon. 
 
 Green Eyes of Bast, The. Sax Rohmer. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Green Goddess, The. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
 Green Ray. Vance Thompson. 
 
 Green Rust. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Green Scarf, The. Clyde Perrin. 
 
 Green Shadow, The. Herman Landon. 
 
 Green Timber. Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Grey Face. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Greyfriars Bobby. Eleanor Atkinson. 
 
 Groote Park Murder, The. Freeman Wills Crofts. 
 
 Gun Brand, The. James B. Hendryx. 
 
 Gun Gospel, The. W. D. Hoffman. 
 
 Gun Harvest. Oscar J. Friend. 
 
 Gunman's Bluff. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Gun Tamer, The. Max Brand. 
 
 Guyfford of Weare. Jeffery Farnol. 
 
 Hairy Arm, The. Edgar Wallace. 
 
 Hand and Ring. Anna Katherine Green. 
 
 Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Hand of Peril, The. Arthur Stringer. 
 
 Handsome Man, The. Margaret TurnbuU. 
 
 Hands Unseen. Herman Landon. 
 
 Hard Wood. Arthur O. Friel. 
 
 Harness. A. Hamilton Gibbs. 
 
 Harriet and the Piper. Kathleen Norris. 
 
 Harry Idaho. Hugh Pendexter. 
 
 Harvey Garrard's Crime. E. Philips Oppenheim. 
 
 Hate. Arthur D. Howden Smith. 
 
 Hawkeye, The. Herbert Quick. 
 
 Head of the House of Coombe, The. Frances Hodgson Burnett 
 
 Hearth of Happiness, The. Anne Shannon Monroe. 
 
 Hearthstones. Elizabeth Stancy Payne. 
 
 Heart of Katie O'Doone. Leroy Scott. 
 
 Heart of the Desert. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 
 Heart of the Hills, The. John Fox, Jr. 
 
 Heart oiE the Sunset. Rex Beach. 
 
 Heart of Unaga, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Hedges. Elizabeth Stancy Payne. 
 
 Helen of the Old House. Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 He Rather Enjoyed It. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Her Mother's Daughter. Nalbro Bartley. 
 
 Her Pirate Partner. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Her Reputation. Talbot Mundy. 
 
 Hidden Kingdom, The. Francis Beeding. 
 
 Hidden Places, The. Bertrand W. Sinclair. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Hidden Trails. 'Williain Patterson White. 
 
 Hide in the Dark. Frances Noyes Hart. 
 
 High Adventure, The. JefFery Farnol. 
 
 High Fires. Marjorie Barclay McClure. 
 
 High Noon. Crosbie Garstin. 
 
 Hildegarde. Kathleen Norris. 
 
 His Official Fiancee. Berta Ruck. 
 
 His Royal Nibs. Winifred Eaton Reeve. 
 
 His Second Venture. Mrs. Bailie Reynolds. 
 
 Homeland. Margaret Hill McCarter. 
 
 Homestead Ranch. Elizabeth G. Young. 
 
 Honk! Doris F. Halman. 
 
 Honor of the Big Snows. James Oliver Curwood. 
 
 Honourable Jim, The. Baroness Orczy. 
 
 Hopalong Cassidy. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Hopalong Cassidy's Protege. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Hopalong Cassidy Returns. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 
 Hope of Happiness, The. Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 Horseman of Death, The. Anthony Wynne. 
 
 Horseshoe Robinson. John P. Kennedy. 
 
 Hotel, The. Elizabeth Bowen. 
 
 House Across the Way, The. Foxhall Daingerfield. 
 
 House of Adventure, The. Warwick Deeping. 
 
 House of Disappearance. J. Jefferson Farjeon. 
 
 House of Dr. Edwardes. Francis Beeding. 
 
 House of Fear, The. Robert W. Service. 
 
 House of Happiness and Other Stories, The. Ethel M. Dell. 
 
 House of Intrigue, The. Arthur Stringer. 
 
 House of Sin, The. Allen Upward. 
 
 House of the Missing, The. Sinclair Gluck. 
 
 House On the Downs, The. G. E. Locke. 
 
 House On ToUard Ridge. John Rhode. 
 
 How Many Cards? Isabel Ostrander. 
 
 Hula. Armine Von Tempski. 
 
 Hunchback of Notre Dame. Victor Hugo. 
 
 Huntress, The. Hulbert Footner. 
 
 Hustler Joe and Other Stories. Eleanor H. Porter. 
 
 If Dreams Come True. Alice Ross Colver. 
 
 Illiterate Digest, The. Will Rogers. 
 
 Immortal Girl, The. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Imperfect Impostor. Norman Venner. 
 
 In Another Girl's Shoes. Berta Ruck. 
 
 In a Shantung Garden. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
 In a Yun-Nan Courtyard. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Indifference of Juliet, The. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Indiscretions of Archie. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Inevitable Millionaires, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Infelice. Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Inn of the Hawk and Raven. George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Innocent. Marie Correlli. 
 
 Innocent Accomplice, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 
 Innocent Adventuress. Mary Hastings Bradley. 
 
 Innocents, The. Henry Kitchell Webster. 
 
 Insidious Di. Fu-Mancbu. Sax Rohmer. 
 
 Inspector French's Greatest Case. Freeman Wills Crofts. 
 
 Interloper, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Interrupted Night, An. Isabella M. Alden. (Pansy). 
 
 In the Brooding Wild. Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Inverted Pyramid. Bertrand W. Sinclair. 
 
 Invisible Woman, The. Herbert Quick. 
 
 Iron Trail, The. Rex Beach. 
 
 Iron Woman, The. Margaret Deland. 
 
 Ishmael. Mrs. Southworth. 
 
 Isle of Retribution, The. Edison Marshall. 
 
 It Happened in Peking. Louise Jordan Miln. 
 
 I Want to Be a Lady. Maximilian Foster, 
 
 Jack ©'Judgment. Edgar Wallace. 
 Jacob's Ladder. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 Jean of the Lazy A. B. M. Bower. 
 Jeeves. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Jenny Essenden. Anthony Pryde. 
 ilL Jean Wick. 
 
 Jimmie Dale and the Phantom Clue. Frank L. Packard. 
 Joan of Arc of the North Woods. Holman Day. 
 Johndover. Margaret Cameron. 
 Johnny Nelson. Clarence E. Mulford. 
 Joseph Greer and His Daughter. Henry Kitchell Webster. 
 Joy Ride. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Judgment of Charis, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 
 Judith of the Godless Valley. Honore Willsie Morrow. 
 Julia. Boroness Von Hutton. 
 
 Just Mother, and Other Stories. Eleanor H. Porter. 
 Juve in the Dock. Marcel Allain. 
 
 Kate Plus 10. Edgar Wallace. 
 Keeper of the Door, The. Ethel M. Dell. 
 Ken the Courageous. Robert Ames Bennet. 
 Kent Knowles: Quahaug. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Keziah Coffin. Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 Keith of the Border. Randall Parrish. 
 Kilmeny of the Orchard. L. M. Montgomery. 
 Kindling and Ashes. George Barr McCutcheon. 
 King By Night, A. Edgar Wallace. 
 Kingdom of the Blind. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 Kingdoms of the World. Margaretta Tuttle. 
 Kingmakers. Burton E. Stevenson. 
 King of Kearsarge. Arthur O. Friel. 
 King of the Khyber Rifles. Talbot Mundy. 
 King of the Wilderness. Albert Cooper Allen. 
 Kings in Exile. Alphonse Daudet. 
 King's Passport, The. H. Bedford-Jones. 
 King Spruce. Holman Day. 
 Knave of Diamonds, The. Ethel M. Dell. 
 Kneel To The Prettiest. Berta Ruck. 
 Knights of the Desert. W. D. HofFman. 
 Knights of the Horseshoe. Wm. A. Caruthers. 
 Knuckles. Clarence Budington Kelland. 
 
 Labels. A. Hamilton Gibbs. 
 
 Ladies of Lyndon, The. Margaret Kennedy. 
 
 Lady Doc, The. Caroline Lockhart. 
 
 Lady of Pentlands, The. Elizabeth Jordan, 
 
 Lady of Stainless Raiment. Mathilda Eiker. 
 
 Lady of the Air, The. C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 Lady Slipper. Ella Wister Haines. 
 
 Lady, What of Life? Lesley Storm. 
 
 Lake Mystery, The. Marvin Dana. 
 
 Land of Big Rivers, The. A. M. Chisholm. 
 
 Land of Forgotten Men. Edison Marshall. 
 
 Land of Mist, The. A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Land of Strong Men, The. A. M. Chisholm. 
 
 Lane, The. Helen Sherman Griffith. 
 
 Laramie Holds the Range. Frank H. Spearman. 
 
 Last Trail, The. Zane Grey. 
 
 Last Trap, The. Sinclair Gluck. 
 
 Laughing Girl, The. Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Laughing Rider, The. Laurie Y. Erskine. 
 
 Lavender Lad, The. Dolf Wyllarde. 
 
 Law Breakers, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Law of the Lean Lands. Chart Pitt. 
 
 Leap Year Girl, The. Berta Ruck. 
 
 Leave It to Psmith. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Lena Rivers. Mary J. Holmes. 
 
THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 
 
 Letters of a Self-Made Diplomat to His President. Will Rogeis. 
 
 lew Tyler and the Ladies. Wallace Irwin. 
 
 Light Beyond, The. £. Phillips Oppenheitn. 
 
 Lights Along the Ledges. Elizabeth Stancy Payne. 
 
 Lights Up. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Lily and the Sword, The. Anthony Pryde. 
 
 Limping Sheriff, The. Arthur Preston. 
 
 Lindbergh, The Lone Eagle. George Buchanan Fife. 
 
 Lin McLean. Owen Wister. 
 
 Lion Tamer, The. E. M. Hull. 
 
 Lip Malvy's Wife. George Agnew Chamberlain. 
 
 Listening Post, The. Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Lister's Great Adventure. Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Little Moment of Happiness. Clarence Budington Kelland. 
 
 Little Pardner and Other Stories. Eleanor H. Porter. 
 
 Little Red Foot, The. Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Little Ships. Kathleen Norris. 
 
 Little Sins. Katherine Brush. 
 
 Little Warrior, The. P. G. Wodehouse. 
 
 Little White Hag, The. Francis Beeding. 
 
 Locked Book, The. Frank L. Packard. 
 
 Lone Hand, The. Joseph B. Ames. 
 
 Lone Hand, The. Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Lonely Warrior, The. Claude C. Washburn. 
 
 Lonesome Land. B. M. Bower. 
 
 Lone Wolf, The. Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Long Live the King. Mary Roberts Rinehart. 
 
 Long, Long Trail, The. George Owen Baxter. 
 
 Lookout Girl, The. Alice Ross Colver. 
 
 Lord of Terror, The. Marcel Allain. 
 
 Loring Mystery, The. Jeffery Farnol. 
 
 Losing Gain, The. Blanche Upright. 
 
 Lost Prince, The. Frances Hodgson Burnett. 
 
 Lost Wolf. Peter Morland. 
 
 Lost World, The. A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Lotus of the Dusk. Dorothy Graham. 
 
 Loudon from Laramie. Joseph B. Ames. 
 
 Louisiana Lou. William West Winter. 
 
 Love Call. E. W. Savi. 
 
 Love Link, The. Pearl Doles Bell. 
 
 Lovely Ducklings, The. Rupert Hughes. 
 
 Love Quest, The. Jean Wick. 
 
 Love Talent, The. Ann Sumner. 
 
 Loving Are the Daring. Holman Day, 
 
 Luck of the Kid, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 
 
 Luck of the Laird. Albert Payson Terhune. 
 
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